The Source of All Things
by PenPistola
Summary: In a different universe, where magic is commonplace and airships traverse the sky, Arthur comes across a mysterious man who could change everything. Is Eames truly what he claims to be? And if so, what are the consequences? Steampunk/Urban Fantasy AU.
1. The Source of All Things

After three days stranded in the desert, Eames was finally coming to grips with the truth he'd been rebelling against since he arrived—he was going to die here. Three whole days he'd spent wandering around aimlessly, without food or a significant source of water. No one had come for him. He'd tried, at first, to make an effort—traveling by night and finding shelter under rocks by day—but it was getting progressively more difficult. Worse than being lost with no idea as to how he'd gotten here, worse than the hunger or the thirst, was the _helplessness_. Someone had done this to him. Someone had drugged, beaten and stripped him naked and then dropped him off here to die alone.

But there was more to it than that. They'd taken his magic.

He'd frittered away countless hours the first day under a scraggly Joshua tree, trying to make something, _anything _happen, but the magic wouldn't come. It was terrifying, like being deprived of oxygen or light, but after he'd railed himself to exhaustion he was left with nothing but placid resignation. There was no use fighting the inevitable. Eames had been lying in the sun on his back for an hour now, waiting for the heat to take him and the sun to bleach his bones. Yes, he was going to die.

"Well this sucks," he croaked, dry lips cracking.

"What does?"

Eames tapped some unknown reservoir of strength and forced himself up into a reclining position. He immediately regretted it as his head threatened to roll off his shoulders and his vision fuzzed to black.

"Hey, are you alright?"

'_No, I am _not _fucking 'alright',_' Eames wanted to answer, but he couldn't form the words. When the danger of passing out had finally gone, he blinked his vision into focus. There was a man standing over him. A man, silhouetted by the sun, standing over him in a three-piece suit in the middle of the desert. One finely-arched eyebrow raised in oddly critical curiosity. The immediate sense of relief Eames had felt began to wane. This was clearly his mind playing cruel tricks on him, grasping at straws for any kind of hope. His brain had chosen an exceedingly strange way to manifest its concept of 'rescue'.

"I'm dead," Eames voiced aloud. "Or I'm dying. You're a mirage, aren't you?"

"I'm Arthur," said the man.

_Well_.

* * *

><p>It was a bit unusual, running into a half-dead, naked man in the middle of the desert, but Arthur had long since learned to take these things in stride. He'd come across far stranger during his little jaunts.<p>

"I'm Arthur," he offered in a half-assed attempt to be polite, but it ended there—the man's body was far too interesting not to stop and stare at. Tattoos covered his body, scrolling over his arms, across his torso and circling down around the muscular curves of his thighs. Elegant script Arthur recognized as an intricate stream of incantations, even though he couldn't read High language. The accent was a lilting, ambiguous British. But most immediately relevant, the stranger appeared to be on the verge of passing out. His eyes were unfocused, pupils uneven, and he kept reaching out as if Arthur wasn't standing three feet away from him. Arthur was often allergic to sympathy, but he felt a rogue element of the emotion pang from somewhere within him. He closed the distance between them, knelt down and took the man's hand in his. The skin was dry and cracked, the pads of the fingers callused. The man managed a slight squeeze.

"I'm Eames," he said, followed by a startled, "Shit, you're real. Bloody hell."

"Last time I checked," Arthur agreed. "What are you doing out here?"

Eames let out an incredulous little laugh, ragged at the edges. "What am _I_ doing here? I could ask you the same."

"I mean, how did you get here?" Arthur explained impatiently. A quick sweep of his dark eyes across the terrain revealed no tire tracks, no footprints except his own and one other set, a dragging trail that presumably belonged to Eames. They were fifty miles out from the City. There was no way Eames could have gotten here without some mode of transportation.

"I've... I've no idea, honestly." Eames' eyes dropped closed, his body sagging. "Been trying to figure that out for three days. All I know is that I'm meant to die out here. Somebody abducted me and left me for dead."

Arthur's eyebrows knit together in thoughtful scrutiny and he gave Eames another once-over. The scrawled tattoos were interesting, though they offered no clue as to who this man might be. He was fairly powerfully built, so perhaps he was muscle for somebody important—but who would come all the way out here just to drop him off? Arthur had a fairly good sense for these things, and his suspicion flared.

"Who are you?" he asked with a jerk of his head.

And Eames looked him calmly in the eye and said, "I'm a Source."

Beat. Arthur's heart sped in his chest. This man, a Source? He let out an involuntary little snort of a laugh. "That's impossible."

"I assure you," Eames coughed, poking at the corner of one bleeding lip with his tongue, "it's true."

Arthur took in the parched tongue, the skin burned red by the sun, the dazed look in Eames' eyes. If he were a Source, he wouldn't be lying here half dead. He'd have used his magic to draw water from the air, or summoned a storm, or help, or just smitten whoever it was who'd thought to get rid of him. The power a Source commanded was simply unfathomable. But, loony or not, Arthur couldn't leave Eames out here to die. For multiple reasons— first, despite how he might try to deny it, Arthur did have a soft side that would probably object to letting Eames kick it. Then there was his damned insatiable curiosity. If Eames _was _a Source, it could mean a lot of trouble for Arthur. He weighed his options— intrigue, or possible threat?

"Fuck it," he whispered under his breath. "In for a penny."

"Have you got any spare change?" Eames asked hopefully. "I could maybe... catch the train..."

Shit, he was delirious. "Look," Arthur said, and Eames managed it with a bit of effort, his face slack with exhaustion. "I don't know who or what you are, but clearly heatstroke has addled your brain. Let's just go back to my home so I can get some fluids in you." His eyes strayed downwards. "And maybe some clothes."

"You'd... you'd cover _this _body?" Eames smirked, blood welling up in the corners of his mouth. "What a shame." Arthur had no comment for that, though his brain helpfully supplied him with a few, most of them in agreement. Eames put up no resistance when Arthur pried him up off the desert floor, but he was no help either, a dead weight against his shoulder. "Hey," he hummed once they were standing, his lips scant inches from Arthur's ear. "You never did tell me how you got out here."

"Why don't I just show you?" Arthur grinned. He reached out, felt the magic running through him and pulled. The universe folded around them.

* * *

><p>When the universe—and more specifically Arthur's apartment— snapped into place around them, Eames was out cold. Apparently he didn't handle Warping very well while on the verge of a coma. "Shit," Arthur cursed, immediately staggering under Eames' limp weight. The guy was heavy. Arthur managed to prevent him from hitting the floor, at least, hefting him onto the couch instead. Once he'd gotten Eames settled and adjusted, Arthur took the opportunity to examine his unconscious form a little closer. His whole body was a study in paradoxes; the lush, almost feminine mouth stood in contrast to the stubble and his solid bulk. There were small scars on the backs of his browned hands, signs of physical labor and old fight wounds. It didn't mesh with Eames' claims of being a Source, nor did the calluses and the feet that had clearly seen years of travel. The fact that he was in peak physical shape didn't mean anything, except to Arthur's libido, but that was irrelevant. The tattoos were the real mystery.<p>

Arthur's knees cracked as he pushed himself to his feet. Maybe Arthur didn't know anything about the old High language, but his father certainly had. Arthur muttered to himself as his fingers danced over the spines of the leatherbound books on the bookshelf. He found it on the bottom shelf with all the larger, thicker first-editions: '_Deciphering Ancient Texts_'. Though he lacked a High language primer or dictionary, he hoped the book might be able to offer some sort of assistance. He scanned Eames' body, looking for a place to begin. _There_. Most of the tattoos were in heavy black ink, but there was a solitary set of red glyphs in the center of his sternum. It looked fresh. Arthur flipped through the introduction of the heavy tome to peruse the section on deciphering spell runes. There, that series of strokes looked familiar. It was something to do with binding, though he couldn't tell how it related to the rest. The downward stroke and the slash he recognized from the Temple gatherings his mother had brought him to as a child, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could picture her in his head explaining the meaning to him. 'Magic'. Arthur's breath caught. The bigger picture was beginning to make sense, the pieces falling together. It seemed impossible, but then he found the last aspect of the inscription on a page describing curses. 'Forever'. There was no way to be absolutely sure what it meant, but of two things Arthur was certain. Somebody wanted this man out of action, and they were willing to go to unthinkable lengths to make it happen—and Arthur couldn't handle this alone. He called Yusuf and Ariadne as fast as he could spin the rotary dial on the telephone.

"Holy fucking Powers, Arthur," Ariadne squeaked as he let her through the door. "You couldn't have covered him up or something?"

"Good point," Arthur blinked. He glanced out into the hallway, and seeing no one, shut the door after his half-sister. "I told you I'm no good at this 'caring for people' thing."

"Obviously," Ariadne muttered. She strode off into his bedroom and came back with the sheet off Arthur's bed fluttering from her arms.

"And if I object to the idea of you using my bedclothes to cover filthy strangers?" Arthur argued to deaf ears. Ariadne was in full mother-hen form now, which was what he'd called her for in the first place, but it was frustrating nonetheless. He watched with arms folded as she spread the sheet over Eames and tucked it under his arms and legs. "Lovely, a filthy sheet burrito."

"Go get me a bowl of water and a washcloth if you're so worried about your precious sheets," she shot at him irritably. "And some water for him to drink, and that poncy aloe lotion I know you keep. Don't try to deny it," she interrupted when he opened his mouth to protest. Arthur glared at the back of her head for a moment before moving to retrieve the items. Ariadne was normally a light and cheerful person, but her eyes were dark and serious as she worked. She mopped at Eames' forehead, then uncovered small sections of his body at a time and gently wiped the grime from his burned, reddened skin. When he was clean, she began to work the aloe in. Arthur watched with interest the way Ariadne's fingers played over the tattoos, following the lines of them.

"What do you think it means?" she asked when she was finally finished. The hard furrow in her brows had disappeared, leaving the open curiosity Arthur was more familiar with. Ran in the family, he supposed. "And why was he in the middle of the desert anyway?"

Arthur bit at his lip. He hated lying to her, but if this turned out badly, it was best not to get Ariadne involved. "He got lost, I guess. Maybe he was with a traveling group," he shrugged, and he hoped his normally perceptive sister was distracted enough that the lie would fly. "No idea why he was naked, though."

"He could be one of those hippies that goes into the desert to commune with nature," Ariadne smirked, and Arthur let out a snort. "He's lucky you just happened to be practicing your Warping out there. He's in bad shape, though. We really ought to get him some proper care."

They both jumped as a knock sounded at the door. "Speak of the devil, there's Yusuf." Arthur could hear him grousing even though the heavy wood of the door.

"I don't know why he couldn't have Warped to my shop and then Warped me back here, the lazy twat. Had to take the bloody train. He _knows_ I hate the train." Yusuf began glaring as soon as Arthur cracked the door. "This had better be—holy shit."

"Yeah," Arthur nodded. "Pretty much. Can you help us?"

Yusuf let out a long-suffering sigh. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

><p>Arthur resented that his living room resembled a triage unit, but it was worth it when the noises Yusuf made over Eames' prone form grew less concerned and more pleased.<p>

"He ought to come 'round soon. He's shown a lot of improvement for the last hour or so."

"That's good," Arthur smiled faintly over the top of his father's book. So Eames would live, which meant Arthur had done his good deed for the year. It didn't stop Arthur from being annoyingly curious about the whole thing. Even if Eames was up on his feet by the next day, Arthur didn't fancy just letting him leave. The _why_ and the _how _of the whole situation had yet to be resolved.

"Yusuf, can I talk to you about something?" he asked with a significant glance in the Chemist's direction.

"Sure, mate, just a sec. If you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on him, Ariadne?" Ariadne happily settled into Arthur's wing-backed armchair and contented herself to stare at the sleeping stranger. "He sure is interesting, this Eames," Yusuf murmured with raised eyebrows, watching Arthur watch his sister. "And attractive?"

"It's not like that," Arthur grimaced. "Well, not entirely. Mostly I'd just like to get to the bottom of this."

"You didn't tell Ariadne what you told me, did you?" Yusuf jerked his head toward the book that Arthur had laid out across the heavy wooden dining table. "About him claiming to be a Source."

"Of course I didn't." He loved his half-sister, but the last thing he wanted was for things to get messy and Ariadne to get hurt. "I still don't know what to make of it."

"You don't believe it, do you?"

Arthur shrugged. Of course he'd been skeptical. Eames had been in such a bad state when he'd found him, it wouldn't have been any stranger to hear him call himself the queen of France. And Arthur would have given the idea that Eames was a Source about as much credence, if it weren't for the tattoos.

"I think someone's put a Stop on him," Arthur said suddenly.

Yusuf stared at him, dark eyes wide. "_What_? But that kind of magic's illegal. _Very _illegal. Not to mention incredibly hard to perform."

Arthur pressed his mouth into a grim and deadly serious line. "You know how terrible I am at deciphering the High language, but I swear, I checked and double-checked. The red glyphs on his chest; they're recent. And the strokes. 'Forever', 'binding' and 'magic'. I can't think of what else it could be."

Yusuf hazarded a glance over to where Eames lay under Ariadne's pensive gaze. "Shit."

Arthur's tongue shot out nervously to wet his lip. "I have an idea."

By the time Eames began to stir, an hour later, Yusuf had managed to copy the text of each of the man's tattoos onto a blank sheet of paper, which he hid folded between the pages of Arthur's father's book.

* * *

><p>"I think he's waking up," was the first thing Eames heard, even before he'd truly regained consciousness. His senses flooded back one by one; the scent of someplace strange, with a soft and unfamiliar sheet tucked in around him, hushed voices he sensed were talking about him. His mouth tasted like dry, dead leaves. He must have been out for a while. When he blinked his eyes open, it was to late afternoon sunlight streaming in an open latticed window. A fresh-faced young woman sat in a leather chair next to where Eames was laid out over a sofa. She had her head propped on her curled fists, her elbows braced against the arm of the overstuffed chair, and she was grinning brilliantly at him. "How do you feel?" And before Eames could cough out a proper answer, "Arthur, Yusuf, get over here!"<p>

Eames forced down any initial sense of panic he'd felt upon waking someplace strange. The young man who'd found him, _saved his life_, Eames realized, set down the heavy tome he'd been holding and strode over. A shorter, darker man with curly black hair—Yusuf—was hot on his heels, a glass of water in hand.

"How do you feel?" Yusuf echoed as Arthur surveyed him with a sharp eye, and apparently finding Eames' current state satisfactory, began to prop him up with pillows. His hands were precise and oddly gentle as he moved.

"I feel pretty terrible, actually," Eames croaked; there was no point in being dishonest. "Thirsty." Yusuf moved to hand him the glass of water, but Eames' fingers trembled when he reached for it. Arthur made an impatient noise and pried the glass away from Yusuf, holding it up for Eames to drink from instead.

"Thirst is normal," Yusuf said with an annoyed glance at Arthur while Eames gulped and gulped and drained the glass in a matter of seconds. It tasted like City water. "I've been trying to keep you hydrated intravenously, but even so, you've been though a lot." Arthur took the glass back and moved over to the sink under the window, refilling it while Eames looked around.

"Where am I?" he asked with eyebrows raised. The room he was in was warm and comfortable, whitewashed plaster walls with dark wainscoting and dark wood moulding. The furniture was heavy and mismatched, but tasteful, and bookshelves lined one wall. He would have suspected he was in somebody's Tudor-style house were it not for the fact that the view out the open window was several dozen stories off the ground.

"_Chez _Arthur," the young woman smiled at him. "You've been out for twelve hours or so, lost consciousness as soon as Arthur tried to move you. He called us as soon as he'd got you up here, and we came to help out." She seemed to remember herself after a moment, flushing a pretty pink and thrusting her hand at him. "I'm Ariadne."

"Eames," he replied uncertainly and gave the hand a shake. Her grip was firm, warm. "I appreciate the help." Ariadne's flush deepened, but before he allowed himself to be distracted by it, he asked, "How exactly _did_ Arthur get me all the way here?"

"Easily," said Arthur, suddenly beside him. If he'd had the energy, Eames might have jumped, but all he could manage was a weary blink. "It's my Talent."

"You're a Warper," Eames realized aloud. Warping was a rare and powerful Talent, but not unheard of. Likely the mysterious Arthur had an interesting pedigree.

"Yeah. Here." Eames' hands were steadier this time, so he took the glass from Arthur. For a moment their fingers brushed, and Eames could feel the magic writhing in him. Arthur shuddered at the contact. Intriguing. He came to himself a second later, blinking the disturbance away.

"I've been Warping since I was twelve," he explained as he settled on the arm of Ariadne's chair. "Provided I've got a clear image of where I'm going, I can fold the fabric of reality in order to move around. Essentially it's teleporting, but I can do other things with my Talent as well."

"Show him the thing!" Ariadne burst in. Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow in her direction. "You know, the thing with gravity!"

"Fine, party tricks it is." The words were clipped, but the crinkles in the corners of Arthur's eyes belied stifled laughter as he gently plucked the glass from Eames' hand. About an inch of water sloshed around the bottom. A second later, it was still sloshing, but in mid air, as Arthur pulled the glass away and the water remained. "It's not levitation so much as Warping the force of gravity. Perhaps it's not as practical an application for bending reality as teleporting, but it is fun."

Yusuf snorted. "You wouldn't know fun if it came up and bit you in the ass." He'd produced a straw from somewhere and proceeded to suck up the floating water, ignorant of Arthur's indignant glare and Ariadne's chortling.

"It's an incredible Talent," said Eames. Arthur glanced at him, as if startled by the compliment, but the corners of his mouth twitched into an unconscious smile a second later. Lovely dimples; probably a rare sight. Eames catalogued it for future reference.

"Well, if my work here is done," Yusuf stood. He retrieved the heavy book from the kitchen table and a jacket from the hook by the door. "Arthur, you know what to do?"

"Lots of water, lots of soup, lots of rest," Arthur recited as he led Yusuf to the door. It sounded mundane, but Eames caught a significant glance between them that was anything but. "And I'll hear back from you tonight?"

"Tonight," Yusuf agreed, and his fingers tightened around the book. "Pleasant to meet you, Mr. Eames." He offered a small wave as he left, and then Arthur shut the door behind him.

"I'll go start some soup." Ariadne pushed off the overstuffed chair and wandered over to the kitchenette. Arthur nodded and then dropped into the vacated seat with a paperback novel in hand.

Eames settled back into the pillows and watched Arthur for a while, his eyelids lowered under the guise of dozing. If Eames had _had_ to be dropped off in the desert to die, well, he wasn't complaining about having Arthur be his rescuer. The man was blisteringly attractive. The tailored waistcoat hugged his narrow, slender torso, though the rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed strong forearms. The lines of his thighs were long and lean, but Eames didn't doubt that the rest of him harbored the same wiry strength his arms did. His hair, longer in the front, looked to have been slicked back at some point, but most of it had fallen about his face in gentle waves. It had the effect of softening his sharp, even features into something boyish. And his _Talent_. Eames had no connection to these people, no inclinations to stay beyond the point where he could function properly, but he couldn't help his senses of intrigue and adventure being aroused.

Arthur and Yusuf were hiding something, and Eames wanted to know what.

"So, Yusuf seemed in a hurry," he commented gamely. He gauged Arthur's expression with a watchful eye. There—a slight twitch of his fingers, his dark eyes darting over the top of the book to glance at Eames.

"Yusuf's a Chemist. He runs an apothecary down in Market District, and I do deliveries for him. Normally he doesn't leave his shop, but I pulled a favor to get him to come up here."

"I see," said Eames. "And this Yusuf is an expert on the treatment of dehydrated persons as well?"

A furrow between Arthur's eyebrows, the crinkle of a page. "He knows enough. And I wanted a second opinion."

"Alright, fair enough," Eames said, placating.

"Soup?" said Ariadne.

* * *

><p>Arthur watched surreptitiously from behind his book as Eames slurped huge spoonfuls of soup. Ariadne sat beside him with a napkin, giggling and catching the inevitable spillage before it could seep into Arthur's sheets. Eames had been able to sit up a bit under his own power in order to eat. Ariadne had called it a good sign—Arthur wasn't so sure. He had yet to be convinced that this whole thing wouldn't end calamitously.<p>

Arthur's eyes darted to the hole in the bookshelf where his father's book had sat. His father had called himself a scholar, but he'd never poured his efforts into one thing, dabbling in everything instead. He'd collected books on every subject, including the heavy tome on the High language that Yusuf was now studying. Yusuf wasn't exactly proficient in the ancient script, but he was a fair sight better than Arthur. Perhaps Yusuf could figure something out. Because if it turned out Eames _was _a Source...

"I don't have a Talent," Ariadne was chattering happily, "but I'm studying magical architecture at the University and minoring in incantations."

"Going to solve the City's housing crisis, eh?" Eames chuckled, and Ariadne blushed.

"Something like that. Arthur's best friend Dom's father-in-law is my professor, but I knew him growing up. He's an inspiration. He modified this apartment for our dad."

Eames looked around. "Modified? In what way?"

"It's bigger on the inside," Ariadne explained. "Dad only had enough money to pay rent on a tiny little broom closet of a place, but Professor Miles did him a favor and magically expanded it."

"Ah," Eames nodded, looking impressed. "He did a nice job, then."

"Though of course when I moved out, Arthur got rid of my room. Said he had to 'ease the stability of the magical architecture' or something." Ariadne's expression went wistful. "The whole thing is so amazing. For my final, I've got to design and construct a building. Most of the others are doing offices, or houses, but I'm doing a cathedral."

Eames' eyes widened. "Really? Seems ambitious."

Ariadne gave a deferential shrug. "We use words and magic to build, instead of stones. We call buildings to life. One stuttered syllable, one missed word or misread part of the incantation, and the whole thing tumbles down. I figured if I have to do something that difficult, why not make it something spectacular?"

"Well, count me awed," Eames grinned.

Ariadne went positively magenta. "If I pull it off, it'll only be because I had such a great teacher. But someday I'll be that good, and then I'll have caught up with Arthur in terms of awesome. He's lucky; his mom had an amazing Talent."

"So you're half siblings then?"

"Yeah. When Arthur's mom died, our dad married my mom and they had me."

"I see," Eames nodded, with a glance in Arthur's direction. Arthur very pointedly stared at the page in front of him.

"What about you, Eames? Do you have a Talent?"

Three things occurred to Arthur at once. He'd read the same sentence seventeen times, and still couldn't remember a word of it; Eames had finished his soup at least two or three minutes ago; and most important of all, he was plying them for information. Maybe not overtly, but he certainly wasn't discouraging Ariadne's motor mouth. Arthur didn't dare speak up, though. Eames' answer to this question could mean everything.

The man didn't hesitate a second.

"I do have a Talent, of sorts," he shrugged. "But I can't use it."

Arthur frowned behind the book. Eames hadn't said anything about being a Source this time, but why? Had he forgotten what he'd said to Arthur in the desert? Was he lying before, or now?

Ariadne cocked her head. "What do you mean, a Talent 'of sorts'? And why can't you use it?"

Eames smirked and pulled at the sheet covering his chest, and there in the middle of his sternum was the single red tattoo amidst the black. "I can't use any kind of magic. Somebody's put a Stop on me."

* * *

><p>The sun had set and Ariadne had gone with it. Arthur had lit the lamps, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow. The room was cozy, and Eames hadn't been able to avoid dropping off for a while. When he stirred awake the clock on the wall read 8:30, and now that Eames had some food and water in him, it was rather pleasant. The only source of tension was Arthur himself. He stood at the sink with his back to Eames, scrubbing plates far longer than was necessary and brooding to himself. Finally the quiet began to grate.<p>

"Thank you, Arthur," Eames said to break the silence, and because his mother _had _raised him with manners, after all.

Arthur startled and dropped the sponge into the pot he was scrubbing. "What?" When he turned around, his brow was furrowed in a way that made him look adorably confused.

"You know. Thank you for saving my life." And Eames really was grateful, which was a rare thing indeed, but Arthur continued to look suspicious even as a light flush settled over his cheeks.

"You're welcome," he said gruffly, and turned back to the dishes as if he could drown his embarrassment with them in the sink.

Eames grinned a little to himself. Arthur had already painted a picture of Eames in his mind, probably casting him as some sort of dangerous, lowlife cad. It was unfortunate for Arthur that he was so easy to ruffle—there were few things Eames enjoyed more than upsetting somebody's balance and shattering their perceptions.

"Your sister is a charming young woman," he said conversationally. "Clever, impassioned... I almost thought when I told her about the Stop that she'd go and off whoever had done it herself." And, _there_. Arthur's spine went rigid almost imperceptibly, but Eames hadn't lived the way he had without picking up a few people-reading skills. So Arthur was protective of her. Eames wondered how many years he'd spent raising her. "She lives in the University dormitories?"

"Yes," Arthur said grudgingly. "She's a senior this year."

"And before that?"

Arthur sighed. "My father died when I was eighteen and Ariadne was eleven. My stepmother decided to go back to her hometown, and wanted to bring Ariadne with her, but she chose to stay with me instead. She was always hell-bent on getting into the University."

"She must be something else, your Ariadne," Eames smiled. "Strong, independent. I imagine you both had to be."

"Yeah." Arthur had finished washing dishes and set about drying them, and in the ensuing silence the slope of his shoulders eased as he relaxed. His hands were deft and methodical as they moved; piano hands.

"...Is she seeing anyone?"

Arthur tossed his towel onto the counter and whirled on him. "Listen, Eames. I don't know who you are, where you're from, or what you've lied to me about. Are you really a Source? And if so, what the fuck were you doing in the middle of the desert? Who would want to kill you? And who the hell would perform a Stop on you when the punishment for an unauthorized spell like that is imprisonment? If you're a threat, I've just endangered my little sister by even bringing her here. You don't get to ask me any damn questions." He gave Eames one last hard look and turned back to his drying.

Eames blinked, stunned. It wasn't quite the reaction he had expected from Arthur, and that. _That_ was _interesting_. Maybe it even deserved a little honesty. Eames hadn't felt chastised like this in ages.

"Jonathan Eames," he said softly.

"What now?" Arthur erupted, the towel hitting the counter with a wet slap.

"'S my name. Jonathan Albert Eames, of a small estate on the banks of the River Thames in London. Son of Albert and Noretta Eames, both Talents in Her Majesty's service."

The furrow between Arthur's brows deepened to almost comical levels. "What?"

"You were right," Eames smiled disarmingly. "It was unfair that, though you rescued me, I knew so much about you and you knew nothing about me. Now I believe the appropriate response is something like, 'I see. And I am'..." He widened his grin meaningfully.

"A-Arthur," he stuttered. "But you knew that." Eames nodded, motioning for him to continue. "Arthur Kovac. I usually go by my mother's name, though—Rydell."

And suddenly the clues fell into place. The house, Arthur's expertly tailored but worn waistcoat, and his exceptional Talent. Lady Eva Rydell had taken a great risk marrying a man both Talentless and lower than her station. Eames vaguely remembered his parents talking about it, how disgraceful it was. But it was for love, Lady Rydell had said. She'd relinquished her title, given it all up for this. For _Arthur_.

"Was she happy?" Eames asked.

Arthur's gaze, previously scrutinizing, turned pensive. "Deliriously," he said softly. "Till the end. We were so poor when I was growing up, but she always told me she would have done it again. A thousand times."

The silence was thoughtful this time, rather than strained.

"Are you really a Source?" Arthur asked after they'd stared at the floor a while.

Eames sighed. If he'd already given himself up while delirious, what harm was there in continuing to tell the truth—about this one thing, at least?

"Yes."

Arthur paused for a moment to absorb the revelation, worrying at his lower lip. Eames watched carefully as his expressions ran the gamut from quiet shock, to confusion, to acceptance and perhaps a bit of fear. "If you're a Source," he said finally, "what are you doing here in Los Angeles and not in Her Majesty's Sourcian Temple in London?" The 'where you belong' wasn't voiced, but it was certainly implied. Eames felt his mood sour.

"Sorry, Arthur Rydell," he said with a yawn that was expertly timed, yet not entirely feigned. "I'll answer more of your questions tomorrow, and then I'll be out of your hair."

Arthur's expression dropped back into what seemed to be its default—brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line. The lines of his body were tense, but resolute. "Very well," he agreed after a moment. "Tomorrow, then. We'll find out who did this to you, see if we can reverse it, and then I'll have done my good deed for the year." He went shuttered after that, and when he turned the knob near the gas lantern, he was reduced to a mere outline by the silver moonbeams lancing in through the window. "Goodnight, Mr. Eames."

"Goodnight."

* * *

><p>Arthur sat on the end of his bed, head in hands. His thumbs massaged his temples as if he could ease the headache his racing brain was causing him through sheer willpower alone. He'd only just gotten off the telephone with a very excited and anxious Yusuf. With luck, he'd managed to translate around half of Eames' tattoos. They were fairly banal for the most part; spells of protection, of luck, prayers asking for favor. The bit that had caught Yusuf's attention however was a line that showed up at least five times. It read, 'The Source of All Things'. Arthur remembered it—he'd had to help Yusuf copy it down onto the paper he'd given him, and he recalled the way the scrolling text had almost looked painted on Eames' skin, brush strokes rather than lines made with a needle. It was beautiful, and if anything, it confirmed that Eames had been telling the truth to him all along. Eames was a Source. A fucking <em>Source<em>. The sheer magnitude of this revelation was staggering.

He flopped back onto the bed, his eyes closed, and simply remembered.

No one ever forgot their twelfth birthday. The sun rose on his like any other day, but for Arthur, there would be no more important sunrise. He awoke to watch it, smiling, and then dressed himself in the red ceremonial robes his father had once worn as a child of twelve. His father and stepmother beamed at him when he emerged from his room. His little sister, balanced on her mother's hip, stared at him in sleepy awe. "One day this will be you," he said to her, and gave her brown hair an affectionate ruffle. His father embraced him, all the emotions he was unpracticed at showing poured out into one simple gesture of affection.

"Good luck," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "I know you'll make me proud."

"Thanks, Dad," Arthur smiled into his father's chest.

He walked to the temple alone and on foot, signifying that today, he became a man. Slowly more children joined in, and when they converged upon the temple they were over three hundred strong. Every child in the City whose birthday fell today, on the twelfth of September, walked beside him. He had seen the children on their march to the temple every day growing up. Always he had waited for the day when it would be his turn, and now here he was.

They filed into the massive vestibule to wait, all giddy nerves. One by one they were called into the Holy of Holies. The chamber of the Source. Finally it was his turn. As the priest led him into the chamber, Arthur's heart thudded so loud in his chest that he was sure the man could hear it, but when they entered, it nearly stopped. There was a chair at the center of a raised dais, and on it sat what was surely the most beautiful woman in the world, gazing kindly at him. The Source.

"Come here, Arthur, son of Eva Rydell," she said to him in a soft, lilting accent. Though he'd been afraid that his nerves would keep him rooted to the spot, he obeyed without a second thought. He knelt at her feet and closed his eyes when she laid a hand on his head. Arthur had felt the touch of magic before, but _this_. This was different. This pulled at him, tore him apart at the seams with a painful wrench and put him back together stronger than before. He felt the magic flowing around him, coursing through his body and curling around his heart. He felt _alive_.

"_Félicitations_, child," she said, and just like that, he knew something wonderful had happened. "Today I have awakened the souls of each of you young ones and called your magic to life. But you are something special. You are a Talent, Arthur."

It was the turning point after which everything changed. He stood with a huge, unconscious smile on his face, knowing that this one thing connected him with his mother. Knowing that she would have been so proud. And that's when he saw her, the young girl sitting behind the Source and staring at him with luminous blue eyes. She smiled back at him. _Mallorie_.

Arthur picked up the telephone again.

* * *

><p>Mal didn't so much as flinch when Arthur folded into being on the balcony next to her. She didn't even look his way, merely smiled out at the cityscape before her and swirled her Merlot in the glass. "It's been a while, Arthur," she said, lips curled deliciously around the words in amusement. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"<p>

"Maybe I just wanted to see you," he said, taking her free hand and pressing his lips to it.

Mal let out a laugh like tinkling crystal. "What clever bullshit you spout!" She leveled her gaze at him, one perfect eyebrow cocked. "What is it that you need, _mon chèr_?

Arthur smiled tiredly and sighed. "Am I so transparent?"

"I'm merely that observant." She took a sip of her wine and leaned her back against the balcony railing, eyes on the sliding door to her home. "Now out with it, before Dom realizes you're here and invites you to stay the night. The children are at their grandfather's, and I was looking forward to some... _alone _time."

Arthur coughed, eyes wide, and Mal laughed her crystalline laugh again. Nothing was worse in his opinion than imagining your best friends in bed together, and Mal knew it. "I... just wanted to talk," he managed.

"Of course. Talk away," she invited with a wave of her hand.

Arthur said nothing at first, uncertain of how to phrase his request. But when the silence had stretched so long that Mal glanced over at him in concern, he met her sharp gaze with solemnity. "Tell me about your mother. Please."

A line formed between Mal's brows, and she ducked her head to take a swill of her wine. "What is there to tell?" she said. She was being evasive, and Arthur didn't want to push her, but he had to know.

"Just... what life was like," he prodded gently.

Mal shrugged and stared down into the dregs of her wine. "Alright, then." Her gaze went faraway.

"We were so young when we met, no? You were twelve and all knobby knees, and I was eleven. I'd grown up my whole life in the temple with my mother, listening to her stories. She used to tell me about the day she turned twelve. She went to the Sourcian temple in Paris expecting to be a Talent, at best. She was from a long line of Talents, you know. But when the Source of that temple laid his hand on her head, something else happened. Maman... she told me it was like the whole universe funneled into her all at once. She was," Mal chuckled at the memory, "she was so frightened that she nearly passed out from screaming. And then they told her the news.

"After that, she started her apprenticeship with the Source that had awakened her. When she was eighteen, she became a fully-fledged Source herself. When they asked where she wanted to serve, she chose to come here, to America. Maman had always wanted to visit as a child, and now she had her chance. She became the Source of the Los Angeles Temple, but you know that. You met her. It's where she met my father, as well. He designed the temple."

"And then they were married and had you," Arthur supplied.

"Yes. It nearly gave the priests coronaries when she announced her intentions to wed a man without a Talent, but she wouldn't be swayed. You know something of that issue, don't you?" she smiled.

"I always wished our mothers could have been friends." The two of them shared a quiet laughter.

"Maman loved pleasing people," Mal continued. "She enjoyed doing things for others. She would tell me every day how amazing it felt to perform this service, to give life to others' magic. The times when we were allowed to leave the temple, people would see her and bow at her feet, asking for blessings. It always embarrassed her, but she would help in any way that she could. People _revered_ her. I grew up wanting to be just like her. But then the day came when I turned twelve, and when my mother placed her hands on my head, I felt nothing of the universe inside me. It was just a small seed, or a breeze. I felt the magic, but not as she had felt it. I remember asking her if she was disappointed, and she hugged me close and told me that no, she could never be disappointed with me.

"She died when I was thirteen. You remember. The priests and my father wouldn't tell me why or how, but I knew. She was pregnant at the time; I could feel it somehow. There must have been complications. My mother and father were... They were trying for another child, I think. A second chance at a child who at least had a Talent."

Mal had gone back to gazing into her wine, silent again. Her smile lingered, but it was touched with sadness. Arthur reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. She glanced from his hand to his face, her eyes drier than Arthur had been expecting, but that was Mal.

"Do you still wish you had followed in your mother's footsteps and become a Source?" Arthur asked her.

Mal huffed a small, unladylike laugh. "Not these days, no. Spend my whole life cooped up in a temple, handing out blessings and awakening the magic in twelve-year-olds, seven days a week? Not likely." She smirked, "Maman may have enjoyed being of service to people, but not me. No, I'm more selfish than that." She gazed into the warm glow of Dom's and her home. "I love my husband and my children. I love being able to see them whenever I want, and taking them to the park every afternoon. I love my freedom."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed. "And I enjoy having you to talk to whenever I want, even when I'm clearly keeping you from... exercising that freedom."

"Yes, you jackass," she laughed. "Go right ahead and waste my entire night with strange questions and girl talk, why don't you." Arthur shoved playfully at her with his elbow as he slipped into his jacket again, and she squawked as droplets of red splashed onto her toes. "And waste good wine, too!"

"My apologies," Arthur smirked, entirely unfazed. He turned to gaze out into the city, preparing to Warp back to his home. He wondered briefly how many of the beautiful deco skyscrapers Mal's father had designed. The one they were standing on, for sure. Before he left, though, there was one last question he needed the answer to.

"Do you think your mother ever regretted it? Being a Source?"

The quality of Mal's smile changed, as if she pitied him for his naivete. "What was there to regret?" she said softly. "She never had a choice."

* * *

><p>He was drowning. He was suffocating. Hands grabbed at him, roots ensnared him, crushing the life out of him. His ribcage would surely give under the pressure soon, snap and leave him a bloody pulp. He had to wake up. He had to–<p>

Eames came awake in a panting, gasping wreck on the floor of the silent apartment. Somehow during the night he'd become entangled in his sheet and flopped off the couch to the floor. The fall must have woken him up—and Eames was acutely thankful for it. He couldn't remember his dream, but the unsettling feeling lingered. He was trapped. Someone was laughing at him, someone with wide, pale eyes.

His shaking fingers traced across his collarbone and down his sternum to where the Stop seemed to burn into his skin. For what felt like the millionth time since he found himself in the desert, Eames tried to call on his magic. His throat was burning, so he focused his attention on the glass atop the counter. Any other day, he could have summoned the glass to himself and drunk to his heart's content. Tonight, nothing happened. Eames punched at the floor, his knuckles hitting with a sickening crack and bouncing off the hardwood. He choked on a cry and held the injured hand to himself, massaging away the pain. It would do him no good to break his hand now, not when he could do nothing about it.

Eames gazed up at the dark, silent doorway that led to Arthur's bedroom. He was glad the man had rescued him, yes. He did not, however, enjoy the fact that he was dependent on this man for his well-being until the Stop was removed. Oh, Eames would play along. It wasn't a matter of pride, simply too many years of being unable to depend on anybody but himself. It was common sense. He would allow Arthur to help him as much and as far as Arthur desired, and when the Stop was removed, Eames would leave. Simple as that. He owed Arthur nothing.

Eames heaved his aching body up on shaky legs and walked over to the counter to fill the glass himself.


	2. Whence all power springs

Arthur's life the past twenty-four hours had been so fucked up that when he awoke to the smell of bacon frying, he didn't give it a second thought. He scrubbed at his eyes, blinked blearily against the brightness of the sun in his window and yawned. Bacon, eggs and beans, it smelled like.

When he finally mustered the willpower to get out of bed and trudge to the main room, Eames was standing at the stove and pushing the sizzling rashers of bacon around with a spatula. "Morning," he chirruped and waved.

"Isn't that a little... dangerous?" Arthur winced, gesturing to where Eames was still totally, unabashedly naked. And uncut. And pretty impressive, really.

"Perhaps, but it's not my fault you never loaned me any clothes, is it?" He gave Arthur a cheeky grin and turned back to the bacon.

"So you're feeling better, then," Arthur gulped. He was trying very hard not to stare at Eames' toned, bare ass, but it was so difficult when it was _right there_.

"Much. Or well enough to want bacon, anyway. I might have done rolls and tomatoes, but your larder is sorely lacking, you know that?"

"It's a bachelor pad now," Arthur groused. "What's it supposed to have?"

"Oh, Arthur, living on your own is no excuse for poor culinary habits." Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but Eames seemed to sense the impending retort. "Now hand me a plate, please," he interrupted before Arthur could get so much as one word out. "Since you've been such a lovely host, it's only fair I serve you first." Arthur glared at Eames' stupid, sexy, very naked ass and did not by any means sulk over to the cabinet where the plates were kept.

Of course breakfast _had _to be delicious. Arthur tried not to let his enjoyment show, but his eyes fell closed in pleasure at his first mouthful of baked beans, and when he opened them again, Eames was smirking at him.

"Learned to cook from an English expat in Mogadishu. He always had a bit of trouble finding bacon, but he managed." He bit into his own bacon and moaned a bit in shameless pleasure.

"Mogadishu?" Arthur blinked.

"I've done a lot of traveling."

Arthur's gaze dropped to his baked beans, and he stirred them with his fork for a while. Yes, he imagined Eames _would_ have to do quite a bit of traveling if he wanted to avoid people knowing him for what he was. "You didn't tell my sister you were a Source." When Arthur glanced up again, Eames' gray eyes were locked on him, penetrating. Examining.

"No, I didn't," he said. The lines of his shoulders were tense, his knuckles white where he gripped his fork hard enough to bend it.

Arthur, unable to maintain eye contact, looked away once more. He understood exactly what sort of threat he posed to Eames, after his little talk with Mal last night. "I won't tell her, or anybody else you don't want me to. Yusuf is the only other person who knows."

Eames went quiet and assessing for a moment, perhaps until he was sure Arthur was telling the truth. Arthur tried to project as much trustworthiness as he could—he was a man of his word, after all. Finally Eames began to relax in increments. "So you believe me then," he mused when he'd seen whatever it was in Arthur he was looking for. He went back to his beans as if nothing had ever happened.

"Yusuf was able to translate some of your tattoos," Arthur explained around his own mouthful of beans.

"Ah, these," Eames nodded, and flexed his right arm. The ink spiralling around his bicep shifted as he moved. Arthur mopped up his drool with a convenient bite of toast. "I got these in Córdoba and Gibraltar when I was eighteen."

"You've been running for that long?"

Eames shot him a thin-lipped smile. "Since I was twelve, actually. Since the day a man put his hand on my head and told me my life would no longer be my own."

Arthur thought back to his conversation with Mal, and imagined what that would have felt like. He'd harbored all sorts of fantasies up until the time of his own awakening, about what he would do with his magic when he had it. Dom, a few years older than him, had an amazing Talent. How awesome would it be if he turned twelve and found he had one of his own? Of course, that's exactly how things had panned out. It was difficult to imagine otherwise, and he'd never entertained so much as the _notion _of turning out to be a Source. Nevertheless, he put himself back where he was at twelve, shaking in his robes, and imagined Mal's mother telling him with a solemn face that he would have to give up his life and move to the temple.

Even though common sense and the way he was raised screamed at him that if he'd been a Source, he should have accepted that fate as his own, it was easy to see why Eames wouldn't want to. Without the Sources to awaken the souls of young ones, there would _be_ no magic. But to force someone to take on that role?

"It was a selfish thing you did," Arthur said quietly, "but I think I understand why you did it. You must have been very brave."

Eames huffed a mirthless laugh. "Brave? I ran away."

"To take your life back," Arthur insisted, but Eames' expression had gone closed-off. He scraped up the last of his eggs in a ridiculous mouthful, then reached across the table to take Arthur's plate.

"Thanks for breakfast," Arthur tried.

Eames shrugged. "Drn't mrntrrn rt." Arthur attempted to follow him to the sink, to help with the dishes, but Eames dodged him expertly, turned him around and pushed him in the direction of his bedroom instead. "Clothes first, please," he explained.

"Ah. Alright."

Arthur wandered to the far end of his bedroom, where his parents' huge wardrobe dominated the wall. Most of their clothes had been replaced by Arthur's, but he kept a few of his father's old things at the back. There was no way Eames could fit into any of Arthur's clothes, but his father's might be a good match. He pawed through the items until he'd found some things he thought would suit the larger man.

"Alright, my sartorially-minded friend," Eames said when Arthur handed him several hangers. "I know now's no time for modesty, but would you mind if I availed myself of your loo anyway?"

"Oh shit, yeah, sorry," Arthur blurted with the sudden realization that he never _had_ got around to asking Eames whether he had to use the bathroom yesterday. "Down the hall, first door on the left."

"Many thanks, mate," Eames nodded, and padded off to the bathroom. Arthur was almost sorry to have to ruin a body like that with clothes, but needs must. And when the door opened again and Eames stepped out, he decided maybe it was worth it. The shirtsleeves covered his tattoos, but did nothing to hide the pleasing bulk of Eames' frame. A pair of Arthur's father's slacks hugged his ass almost obscenely, and one of his waistcoats and a flat cap made the ensemble, in Arthur's opinion, perfect.

"I look like a professor," Eames moaned. "Hell, I look like _you_."

"And what's wrong with that?" Arthur frowned, eyes narrowed. There was nothing wrong with appearing to be respectable, in his opinion. Eames wisely held his tongue, only picked a little mutinously at one of the waistcoat buttons.

"Only so many hours before sunset," Arthur sighed, grabbing his messenger bag. "I suppose we should get a move on."

"Let's," Eames agreed. "And I've got a good idea of where to start."

* * *

><p>Arthur held out one warm, steady hand, and Eames took it in his own callused grip. "Hold on," Arthur warned him, right before the universe collapsed.<p>

Warping while unconscious and Warping while fully awake were clearly two very different things. Eames released Arthur's hand what seemed like ten years later, and he fell to his knees gasping and shaking. "Fucking hell," he wheezed. His lungs felt like they were trying to crawl their way out his esophagus, and the feeling receded only after he'd taken several large gulps of air. "How do you travel like that? It's like being squeezed through a rubber hose."

Arthur stood by while Eames caught his breath, staring at him with his brow furrowed. "Nobody's ever reacted like that before. And it was just a short hop down to the street."

"Still, can we take the train to get about?" At last Eames was able to stagger to his feet, hands braced on his knees. "Please?"

"I'll do you one better," Arthur smiled.

Under Arthur's ramshackle old apartment building was a rickety lift whose buttons advertised the floors 'B1' and 'B2'. Arthur and Eames stood on opposite corners of the lift as it descended and Eames guessed at what might await them. It was a car park, he realized with some excitement as the contraption juddered to a halt on B2.

"I've never ridden in a motorcar before," he admitted softly as they stepped into the dark, cavernous space.

Arthur shot him a strange look. "Not ever? Not even staying in a big city like this one?"

"Never had the occasion," Eames shrugged. "Never enough money for cab fare, never a reason to need one. I'd quicker take the train than spend what little I had on a cab."

"Fair enough." Arthur led them to the back of the lot, where the seemingly more modest cars were parked, and stopped in front of an old brass and black-lacquered four-seater with gorgeous lines. "Her name is Elsa."

"Mm, Elsa," Eames hummed as he ran a finger over the dash in appreciation. Eames couldn't imagine Arthur drove her often, but he certainly kept her up well. "Seems to fit. Did you name her?"

"My father did. It took him years to save up enough to buy her."

"I'll imagine. Worth it, though," Eames decided as he entered the carriage and sank into the plush cushioned seat.

"Yeah. My mom always said she didn't need any material possessions to be happy, but she loved this car."

Eames, while highly impressed by the car, didn't think he could have dealt with all its peculiarities with as much enthusiasm as Arthur seemed to, but it was rather endearing the way Arthur smiled faintly as they waited for the steam boiler to heat up from its cold start and for the compressor to kick in. Finally the engine began to purr, and Arthur started the vehicle up a spiralling ramp to street level. They merged into the pedestrian and carriage traffic of L.A.'s Residential District, and Eames felt a bit of satisfaction being in one of the few motorcars. He tried to pretend it wasn't the most fun he'd had in a year. The breeze was lovely, so he took the cap off to let it play through his hair. Honestly, if he'd known car rides were this much fun, Eames would have tried it ages ago.

"My apartment is on the border of Residential District and Market," he explained. He thought briefly about giving Arthur the most roundabout directions he could, but figuring out what had happened to him was more important than prolonging a motorcar ride.

"On the run and you've got an apartment? Isn't that dangerous?" Arthur asked. Eames glanced over to Arthur, who had his eyes trained on the road, but who was very much alert and listening. So it was back to the probing again. Well, two could play that game.

"I'll trade you an honest answer for an honest answer, alright mate?" he offered. He knew there was no way Arthur could resist, and sure enough, the man bit at his lip and gave a short nod. Eames leaned back in his seat, resting his arm on the body of the car and gazing out at the street-level view of the skyscrapers. "Anyway, that's easy. Yes, it's unusual for me to bother renting a place out, but it's as simple as, 'I've been in this City for near on a year, and needed a place to stay.' Hotels are too expensive."

"What's made you stay so–" Arthur started, but Eames cut in.

"Ah ah, Arthur, you agreed. Answer for an answer, which means it's my turn."

Arthur's lips pressed into a displeased line, but he continued to drive without comment.

Eames ran a hand through his wind-ruffled hair and tried to think of the question that would most throw Arthur off his game. He smiled to himself, settling on, "So Arthur, I've got to ask—why exactly are you helping me?" Arthur was already starting to tense, so he added, "And remember, be honest. I'll know otherwise."

Arthur stared straight ahead and shifted his grip on the steering wheel, and Eames tried not to clap his hands in delighted schadenfreude. Everyone, _everyone _had ulterior motives, all the time. Everyone acted out of self-interest. And nobody ever wanted to admit it. Whatever came out of Arthur's mouth would surely be telling. Damning, maybe.

"Alright," Arthur sighed. "I won't try to deny that it's a little self-serving that I find you interesting. I do want to help you, yes, and that's part of my nature. But I'm also reprehensibly curious. I want to _know_."

The answer gave Eames pause. He turned to study Arthur's features while Arthur resolutely avoided looking at him. The lines of his body were straight and sharp, and tense, but not defensive. He knew that Eames had purposefully put him on the spot, but he had met Eames' question readily enough. With the truth, even. Eames frowned and mulled this over in his head for a moment. He was so distracted he nearly forgot to direct Arthur to turn. "Under the flyover."

They passed under the shadow of the raised monorail line between Residential and Central District just as a train came trundling along it. White, billowy steam followed in its wake, and when it entered the tunnel through the Fischer Building in Central, it looked as if a smoking dragon had just gone into its cave. At the top of the towering building, the Fischer family airship was moored and drifting lazily like a ridiculously oversized flag. Maurice Fischer ruled L.A. like an indifferent gargoyle from up there, looking down at all his peon subjects. Eames wondered if old Maurice was watching him now.

"I always thought that was so ostentatious, having a train go through a building like that." Eames jerked in his seat in surprise, and turned to see Arthur finally looking at him. After keeping Arthur on the run for the first half of their ride, it put Eames oddly off balance now that the dark-eyed man had begun to hold his own.

"I suppose," Eames agreed. He'd already half forgotten what they were talking about.

"It's my turn to ask a question, right?" Arthur was back to smiling again, as if he'd never been backed into a corner at all.

"Fire away." Eames shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The grassy, green park they were driving past gave him enough of an excuse to sightsee rather than keep up eye contact.

"Do you... have any friends here?" Arthur's voice was slow, as if the asking made him guilty, but he didn't retract the question. "I mean, not bosom buddies, but regular friends? Acquaintances, people you know and who know you?"

Eames wondered if the man was joking, but he looked perfectly serious, his dark eyes darting from the road to Eames and back. Eames let out a bark of a laugh, an acidic smile pulling at his lips to bare his teeth. "Let me tell you what I've learned about friends," he bit out. "You think you have them, until one day, you don't. One day, they invite you over for dinner, and sell you out to mercenaries for twenty pounds instead. Twenty _fucking _pounds."

And his words had the reaction he'd desired; Arthur flinched, drew back in on himself, his shoulders hunching. "And... what would happen if you got caught?"

Hands bound by heavy iron chains that cut into his wrists. A club to the head, a whip to the back, chanted wards and the thick haze of sedatives. The way his nerves screamed as he'd broken the chains, shook off the drugs and lashed out with his magic, sending everything in the room flying as if caught in a maelstrom.

"I'd either be forcibly 'escorted' to the nearest Temple to serve as a proper Source, like some magical dairy cow, or I'd be sold as a slave to the highest bidder."

Arthur sank into his seat, as if he were remorseful for asking anything at all. Eames couldn't decide whether he felt satisfaction over this or not. He didn't think he had it in him to be grateful beyond his immediate surroundings—abstract gratefulness was something he'd never known, except in the sense that he was glad not to be dead. Continuing gratefulness toward Arthur for rescuing him was out of the question. Even so, Eames did have the tattered remnants of a conscience in him somewhere, and Arthur's kicked puppy posture tugged at him.

"You... must be mad," he ventured. "Helping a renegade Source."

Arthur glanced over at him for a split second, as if he were surprised to be spoken to. "It's perfectly possible," he agreed after a moment. "And I was always the rational one growing up." His lips twitched into a smile, the one that showed his dimples. Eames felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight of it. But before he could examine that particular reaction, his temporary apartment building came into view.

"_Are _you a danger to me?" Arthur asked as he put the steam car into park.

Eames decided to abide by their agreement and answer this one truthfully. "I don't know."

He'd deal with his _feelings _later, then.

* * *

><p>Arthur's apartment building was old and shabby, but it was clean. Eames' building was, to put it bluntly, a dilapidated hovel. The tenements along the border between the Residential and Market districts had a reputation for being the havens of drug dealers and other unsavory types. They were near enough to the network of illegal tunnels riddling the massive walls between districts that there was always someplace to run to if the police came raiding. The legal, sanctioned gates in the walls were unrestricted, of course, but they could be closed in times of emergency. Arthur had heard dark stories about the tunnels. Eames' building was made of crumbling brick, in the shadow of the wall itself.<p>

"It doesn't get a lot of sunlight, or gaslight, for that matter, but I make do," Eames said as they approached the building. Arthur was fairly sure that 'make do' was being generous, and that the only living thing that could actually thrive in someplace like this was a slime mold, but he said nothing. He was on a hair-trigger—ready to Warp to the safety of his own home at the slightest provocation.

The entrance to the building was a single wooden door surrounded by enchantments and hexes meant to ward off intruders. "Shit," Eames murmured when they got to it. He kicked at the base of the door, and the protective hex spat a warning at him. "Normally I could take care of this, but..." He tapped at the center of his chest.

"Right," Arthur stepped forward. He was no good whatsoever with this stuff, and he was reminded why he sometimes agreed with his sister that having a Talent had made him lazy. He'd never bothered to learn some of the basic incantations, because before, he'd simply never had a reason. He'd never needed to. The only home protection spells Arthur knew were the ones for his own home—and his father had installed those. He would give it his best shot now, though. His voice was a bit shaky as he attempted to coax the hexes back and convince the door to open, but he must have remembered more from primary school than he'd thought. He made one final plea to the door to recognize Eames as a resident, and finally he heard a creak. When he opened his eyes, the portal stood ajar.

"Well I'll be," Eames huffed and pursed his full lips. "A Talent who knows his incantations; how unusual."

Arthur ignored the backhanded compliment and followed Eames into the dim entrance corridor. The only light came from a grimy window near the top of the stairwell, and most of it was choked by thick, swirling motes of dust before it could reach the floor. Arthur was about to tread on a pile of rags when Eames caught him by the shoulders, jerking him back.

"Watch it," he warned, and Arthur realized belatedly that the pile of rags was, in fact, a person. He self-consciously avoided the man's poisonous glare as they began to ascend the rotting stairs.

The rest of the building was quiet and seemingly deserted, and as Eames led them onto the fifth floor landing, Arthur could tell even he was unsettled. They skirted places where the colorful Mediterranean floor tile was missing, revealing the baseboards and holes to the story below, and the only other living creature they ran into was a skinny cat. "Strange," Eames mused.

Finally they stood at the door at the end of the hallway, number 515. Arthur reached for the door handle and stopped short.

"Do you feel that?" Eames whispered. A visible shudder ran through his body.

"It feels like the wisps of a torn cobweb." Arthur swiped out at empty air, and if he concentrated, he could sense the ragged strands of wards and enchantments and hexes. "Someone broke in. Somebody powerful."

It was a gross understatement, and Eames exhaled through his nose. "He'd have to be, in order to drug, beat and capture me."

Arthur shot Eames a significant glance as the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. "Do you get a bad feeling about this?" Where he'd felt reasonably confident a moment before, if a bit spooked, every one of his internal alarms was clamoring right now.

Eames squared his shoulders. "I have to know."

When Arthur pushed on the door, it fell off the top hinge and swung at a crazy angle to crash into the wall. Both of them flinched at the sound, and it scared Arthur that Eames was just as scared. Something wasn't right here, and it was apparent as soon as they stepped inside.

"Shit," Eames breathed. Every piece of furniture was broken into splinters, clothes and papers and rotting food strewn about like a carpet. The windows were all gaping holes where the panes should have been, and a large chunk of the corner wall and the floor of the room above them was simply missing. Pigeons sat on the jagged gap in the external bricks, eyeing them with disdain. This place had seen what must have amounted to a magical _explosion._"Well at least it seems I put up a fight."

Arthur followed Eames into the room, their footsteps crunching on broken glass. His eyes darted between the larger man and their surroundings, looking for clues. Many of the papers coating the floor were hand-written in the High language. Arthur picked up one sheet in scrawled, elegant fountain pen strokes. "You speak the old High?" he asked, handing the paper to Eames.

Eames glanced at it and tossed it back to the floor. "Sure do, mate. Magic, as they say, is the universal language. Only way to get around in some countries." Arthur was still impressed, but Eames was right, of course. The people of the loosely federated American city-states kept mostly to English, but in Europe, where there were so many different languages in so small a space, speaking old High must surely have been a useful thing. "The language is far more saturated abroad."

"I see," Arthur nodded, and then paused mid-step. A glimpse of red. There. Arthur kept his gaze locked on the tiny scrap and made his way over, dodging a few suspect puddles. On the back of what looked like a grocery list was a smear of red ink. As soon as he touched it, his fingers began to tingle. "Eames?" he called out, and without turning Arthur could hear the man tromping his way. "Take a look at this. Is this what I think it is?"

Eames ripped the scrap from Arthur's hand and let out a low moan. "Oh gods. Yes, yes it is. It's fucking bloodwell ink." His fingers touched the place on his chest again where the Stop burned under the fabric of his clothes. A spell sealed in regular ink would be troublesome enough to get rid of, but one signed with blood was even weightier. "Someone was very, very serious about stripping me of my powers. Very serious." The words were barely audible.

Something glinted in the wall behind Eames' head. "Wait, I see something else."

"I should start calling you Eagle Eyes."

"Just 'Arthur' is fine." Arthur pushed past Eames and carefully negotiated a path to the wall near the blown-out corner. There was a metal spike of some kind embedded in the drywall. Arthur reached out and wrapped a hand around the cool, solid metal. He couldn't feel any negative enchantments around it, so he pulled. The drywall gave easily, and Arthur was left holding a steel flechette with a pointed, lance-like body and small fins. "Check this out."

Eames turned to Arthur, gray eyes wide. "Do you remember that bad feeling you said you had?"

Yes, actually, he did, and he was about to say something to that effect when a line of flechettes remarkably similar to the one he was holding chewed into the drywall just inches from his head. "Fuck!" Arthur cursed and dropped to the floor. He hissed a second later when broken glass needled his hands, but he didn't fancy being impaled. His back was better protected by the thick material of his waistcoat, so when heavy boots slammed into the floor next to him, he rolled without a second thought. The closest means of shelter was the half-destroyed kitchen island, and he scrambled as quickly as he could over papers and broken plates until he was at least somewhat protected.

It would be so easy to Warp from here. He could be at his apartment in a matter of seconds, if only...

"Eames!" he called out. He was giving away his position, sure, but the certainty that Eames was going to die if Arthur didn't try and help him kept him rooted to the spot.

"I'm alive," Eames called from a good distance away. Much further away, in fact, than the sound of crunching footsteps approaching his hiding place. Arthur made a split-second decision, a stupid, rash, _insane _decision, and darted around the opposite end of the demolished cabinetry. Their attacker whirled in surprise, and Arthur caught a glimpse of a long, black duster and lank brown hair before the man leveled his flechette pistol with Arthur's face.

"No you fucking don't," Arthur growled. A sweep of his right leg connected solidly with the side of the man's knee, and though he held onto the pistol, he staggered and his aim was blown. His heavy boots fought for purchase in what looked like a puddle of mustard and finally found it. He brought the pistol to bear as he ran for the gap in the wall, but Eames chose that moment to step out from another doorway and clothesline him with an outstretched arm.

"Hrrrk," the guy choked, and dropped. He hit the floor and rolled, gasping, and Eames aimed kick after kick at him but only half of them connected. The assassin—shit, _assassin_, what the _fuck_—staggered to his feet, and before Arthur could get to him, launched a punch at Eames' eye. The punch missed, but the cold cock with the butt of his pistol made contact.

Arthur caught Eames as he dropped to his knees, but Eames was holding his bleeding temple with one hand, screaming, "Fuck off and go get him!"

The assassin was already scrambling up the jagged edge of the hole in the wall to the splintered floorboards of the level above them. Arthur raced up the bricks after him and had nearly caught him by the ankle when he heard the pop of the gas-powered flechette pistol and a searing pain in his left bicep nearly caused him to lose his grip on the wall. It was a glancing wound, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. "Bastard!" he cried, and he watched as the assassin heaved his way onto the floor above. Once he was safe, the man turned back to stare at him. They made eye contact, wearing matching expressions of hatred, and then the assassin grinned a disturbing rictus grin.

"Better watch out," he said, and he lifted a long, square tube-shaped device from what must have been his stakeout camp.

"Oh shit," Arthur breathed. He climbed down until his feet were safely on the floor of Eames' apartment and began backing up, past where the floorboards of the room above cut the assassin from his line of sight, knowing the building's shoddy hardwood wouldn't be enough to protect him...

"What is it?" Eames asked. Arthur grabbed him by the arm and started maneuvering him out the door to the hall.

"Rail gun," he said tersely and he felt Eames tense in his grip. "On the count of three. One." Footsteps on the floor above, moving closer to their position. "Two." The whine of the rail gun's solenoids charging in preparation to fire. "Three." _Bang_.

The universe closed around them.

* * *

><p>Eames and Arthur collapsed together in a shaking heap on the floor of Arthur's main room. A second later, Arthur was scrambling to the door, muttering under his breath and examining the enchantments to ensure they were intact. A spot of red stained his sleeve, but he ignored the injury in his agitation.<p>

Eames tried to pull himself off the floor, but he didn't have the energy to stand, and even after he'd regained his breath he felt lightheaded. A finger cautiously pressed to his temple came back dripping with blood. "Shit," he breathed and flopped backward. It felt like a mild concussion, but Eames had no way to really treat himself. Not for the first time he raged silently against the man who had put the Stop on him—and now he had a face to picture when he cursed the man a slow and painful death.

When Arthur was convinced his wards and enchantments were holding—on the windows, too—he moved to the telephone and started dialing. His fingers drummed against the stock of the handset until the person on the other end answered. "Hey," he murmured under his breath. "No, nothing's wrong. We got into a bit of trouble in Market District. Just a pickpocket. No, I'm fine, but I'd like you to take a look at Eames if that's alright. I'll come and get you and bring you back when you're done. Just sit on your bed and wait for me."

He hung up and turned to Eames. "Just stay where you are, alright?" he pleaded. "I'm bringing Ariadne here to patch you up, and then I've got to go talk to somebody. Okay?" Eames gave a painful nod. "I'll be right back."

"What about Elsa?" Eames asked. They'd left the car parked outside his apartment building, which wasn't safe even when there weren't assassins lurking about.

"I'll go back for her later," Arthur said, distracted. Eames very much doubted that, and he took a moment to mourn the beauty of the machine.

Watching Arthur use his Talent while Eames wasn't accompanying him was fascinating. Arthur closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then simply stepped into thin air that closed around him. Eames' addled brain had hardly come to terms with the absurdity of it when Arthur stepped back, appearing out of nowhere with a wide-eyed Ariadne in tow. Eames blinked as his vision began to fill with dancing black spots. '_I will never get used to that_,' he thought just before his body gave up trying to be conscious.

When he came around again what felt like a second later, Eames was back on the couch, blinking owlishly at Ariadne holding a washcloth. "This is familiar," he chuckled. Ariadne smiled back and pressed gently at the blood-matted hair of his temple. "Arthur's gone?"

"Yeah. I made him let me take care of his arm, but then he said he had to go talk to Yusuf about something." She frowned when the washcloth came away bloody. "I used some really basic incantations to help fight the swelling, but I imagine this still hurts like a bitch."

"It's alright," Eames shrugged. "Shouldn't need stitches, anyway. I've had plenty worse." Most every other time he was able to heal himself, but here he was, still fucking useless.

Ariadne's brows creased in concern. "Your mugger must have been pretty intent on hurting you," she said. "I wonder what he thought you had on you to steal."

She knew nothing. Of course she didn't. She was innocent in all this, and so young; of course Arthur would want to protect her. "Who knows?" he said. Because yes, he did believe that some people were worth lying to in order to protect them, and in two days Ariadne had become one of them. "If you tell me about your day, maybe it'll distract me from how much this stings."

Ariadne accepted the change in subject without comment, patting the cleaned laceration dry. She got up and came back with a glass of water, sitting beside him on the couch. "Oh, it was alright," she said as Eames began to gulp deeply—he hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been. "Today Professor Miles was talking about how you have to _feel_ the building you're creating, and I definitely understood him. It's not just the technical aspects of working with positive and negative space, and flow and all that. You have to work with the spirit of the building. He said the best buildings are the ones that are built intuitively, that just fall together because they're so perfect, and you only achieve that when it comes from someplace deep. Emotion, rather than logic. He designed and built the temple in Central District, you know," she smiled. "The incantation alone took three days to recite. It's an example of what he was talking about, I think. Whenever I visit the temple, it speaks to me emotionally. Viscerally."

Eames had visited the Los Angeles Temple before, and 'visceral' seemed a fairly accurate way to describe his reaction as well. He never could go into a temple without his stomach tying in knots.

Next she moved to talking about her classmates, what their final projects were going to be, and who was sleeping with whom. It wasn't unpleasant, the way she prattled on. Eames listened with half an ear, the rest of his concentration focused on just watching her. She and Arthur were more alike than Eames had first realized. They had the same dark eyes and hair, and pale skin, but it went deeper than that. They shared mannerisms; the quick movements of their hands, the furrows that formed in their brows when they concentrated. They would do anything for one another, Eames realized. He wondered what it was like, to have someone that close to you.

"–and later tonight, Sophie and I are going to Interstice. It's this underground music scene most of us Uni students are guilty of frequenting. Myself included. Well, it's not literally underground," she laughed at his raised eyebrow. "It's in a hidden hollow in the wall between Residential and Market. The entrance is–" She fell silent at the touch of Eames' hands enclosing hers. "What is it?"

"I don't think you should go."

"What?" Ariadne was still smiling, but it dropped when Eames said nothing. "Is... something wrong?"

"I've just got a bad feeling," Eames said evasively. His heart thudded in his chest. "I don't know why, I just don't think you should go. Trust me on this. Please."

"Alright, _Mom_," she laughed a little, but it was shaky and unconvincing. "I'll tell Sophie I've got homework or something." She wandered over to the telephone and dialed who was presumably Sophie, and Eames let his head sink back in exhaustion. Ariadne was safe. Good.

* * *

><p>Yusuf managed not to spill chemicals all over himself when Arthur banged in the door, but it was a near thing. "Fucking hell! You scared the shit out of me," he grumbled. He didn't think to flinch until Arthur had slammed his palms down on his desk.<p>

"Listen," Arthur stared, heedless of the test tube of white powder he'd knocked over. "I need your help."

Yusuf narrowed his eyes and scooted his chair back a few inches. "Well you're sure not doing a good job convincing me." Arthur didn't back down; he couldn't, not with adrenaline racing through his body like this. They stared at each other in a tense momentary stalemate. Yusuf broke first. "Fine," he said grudgingly. "What is it you want?"

"Assassins. I need information on assassins."

"What?"

"Don't bullshit with me," Arthur growled. "I know you fucking deal with them."

Yusuf barked a mean, incredulous laugh. "Are you here to do more than cast aspersions on my moral integrity," he leaned forward, "or should I show you the door?"

And like a balloon caught in a cactus farm, Arthur felt his adrenaline bubble burst. He shrank back and put a hand to his head. His headache from earlier was seeping back around the edges with a vengeance, and the gash in his arm was throbbing under the bandages. "Shit, I'm sorry," he sighed. "It's just... I almost fucking died today." Now Yusuf was listening, at least. "We went back to Eames' apartment and this guy had set up a stakeout. He was waiting for us. We only just got away." Arthur collapsed into the wooden folding chair across from Yusuf's desk.

Yusuf had sobered as well, and if he wasn't sympathetic, he was at least calmer. "Describe to me what you can," he said with a tetchy bite.

Arthur rubbed at his temples, eyes closed. "He was maybe... six feet, six one. Dark, lank, greasy hair, dark eyes. Black duster. Gas-powered flechette pistol and a rail gun." When he was satisfied with his description, he opened his eyes again to see Yusuf staring at him. "What?"

"A man... came in to see me last week when you were out doing deliveries," Yusuf explained hesitantly. "One that fits your description. He asked for cinnabar and 2-naphthol, and I gave them to him." He glanced around, as if anybody could be listening in on them, and said sotto voce, "Those two ingredients are used for dyes, which is innocuous enough, but they're also used for making bloodwell ink. The kind that would make for a damn powerful Stop."

"Shit," Arthur moaned, going limp in the chair and leaning his head back.

"You're telling me." Yusuf sounded strangely pitying, and Arthur didn't like that. Not at all. "This is some serious fuckery you've gotten yourself into. That man, who came in and asked for those things? Andrew Nash. Even _I'd _heard his name; he's a damn legend in the underworld."

_Ariadne_. "What the hell do I do?"

"Lie low," Yusuf advised him. "Don't go out any more than you absolutely have to."

"My job," Arthur argued feebly, though he knew working after everything that had happened seemed absurd. Beyond absurd. After rescuing a renegade Source and being shot at, being _shot_, going to work was too banal for words. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't pay you enough as a delivery boy to justify you risking your life. I'll make do. Don't go out unless it's an emergency, and ensure you've got every inch of the apartment under protection. Check that you've got the walls and floors too, not just the windows and doors. It also wouldn't hurt to try and mask your presence. Clear your tracks, so to speak. Don't tell anybody I had anything to do with this, but that's just common sense. And oh," he said, leaning across the desk. "_Get rid of the Source_."

* * *

><p>Someone with pale eyes was laughing at him. Watching him, as if from behind an observation window to his suffering. The betrayer. Eames could see nothing. He was alone, somewhere dark and cramped with the scent of earth and decay. He'd been stripped, like in the desert. He could feel worms beneath his feet, like the kind that haunted... <em>graves<em>. Eames felt blindly ahead of him, and his fingers brushed against a moist dirt wall. To the right—another wall. To the left–another. At his feet–

Eames knelt into the dirt and patted at it until he found it. A hand. The limb, cold and limp, was attached to a body half-covered by loose dirt. Unresponsive, lifeless. This was Eames' grave; he knew that. So why wasn't he alone? Who would be buried with him? He felt up the shoulder to the neck, the face, the hair, the lips—_Arthur_.

Eames screamed. Nobody heard him, save for the laughing pale eyes.

_Et tu, Brute?_

_Et tu, Iscariot?_

He left the body and scrabbled forward, attempting to climb his way to freedom, but the dirt crumbled and he fell back to the ground. He tried again, bracing his hands and feet against the side walls, but they sank into the earth. Worms writhed and poured from the holes he left behind when he jerked his hands away. He tried and tried, and the pile of loose dirt all around him grew steadily higher, but he was no closer to escape. When he called on his magic, nothing happened. Nothing could save him. He would die down here beside the innocent man he'd endangered. But was the true betrayer really the pale-eyed one, or was it Eames, who knew things of which he didn't speak? Things he dared not say? Dirt began to pour in from above, heavy and suffocating. He was trapped. It was weighing him down, the pressure was building... He couldn't breathe. He couldn't. He couldn't–

* * *

><p>Eames was shirtless and sleeping fitfully when Arthur returned to the apartment. Ariadne stood immediately, lines in her face smoothing out from relief to see him home safe. "Welcome back."<p>

"Is Eames doing alright?" Arthur asked, and Ariadne shrugged.

"Seems to be." She picked up her bag from the floor and stepped closer to him, eyes searching. "What's going on, Arthur? I told him earlier that I was going to Interstice and he warned me not to go. He said he had a 'bad feeling'."

"Oh hell," Arthur breathed. Interstice was within walking distance of Eames' apartment, and Nash. Ariadne was gazing steadily at him, waiting for an answer, and he knew he couldn't lie to her again. "Look," he tried. "I have to take care of some things, and when I'm sure it's safe, I'll tell you all about it. I promise, I wouldn't keep this from you if it weren't a matter of all of our safety."

Ariadne bit at her lip the same way he tended to do when he was contemplating what to say. "Alright," she decided. "But I'm letting you know now, I don't like this. All this 'secrets' stuff? It's not you." She stared up at him, and even though she was a full head shorter, he was compelled to nod in agreement.

"I promise."

It was a short hop to Ariadne's dorm, where at least Arthur could be sure she was safe. The wards the University put on these places could keep out a whole pack of assassins. He tried kissing her on the top of her head, but she squirmed out of reach soon after. "Don't worry so much; you're a clever guy," she said seriously as she dug in her wardrobe for pajamas. "You'll figure it out, okay?"

"I hope so."

"And hey," she smiled. "I love you, bro. Don't forget that."

"Love you too," he replied at once, the corners of his mouth twitching. Even if he wasn't totally reassured, his sister's support counted for something. "See you later."

Arthur fell into his chair after Warping back to the apartment. Overuse of his Talent had exhausted him—not to mention all the running for his life. He shot a glance at Eames, still tossing on the couch. His face was screwed up, hands clenched like he was in the throes of a nightmare. What the hell was Arthur supposed to do with him?

Yusuf had been totally, one-hundred-percent right. It was a huge risk to his and especially Ariadne's life to continue to help Eames. He wondered whether he hadn't already doomed the both of them by even picking Eames up. Who knew what the assassin was capable of? It was possible he'd already traced them back to Arthur's apartment and was just biding his time, waiting for them to slip up and come out of hiding. Arthur wasn't a coward. He wasn't some terrified old housewife determined never to leave home, lest the bad guys get him. But he was rather fond of, you know, _not dying_, too. Yet, he'd made a promise to Eames. Therein lay the dilemma.

So far as Arthur could see, he had two options. He could continue to help Eames, only be more cautious about it. He had contacts, people he knew who could check in on the whole Nash business, people who could provide him with information and protection. He could lie low, investigating and researching through friends all he needed to know about removing the Stop. And once the illegal spell was removed, and Nash out of the picture, it was game over. His promise would be fulfilled, and he and Eames could go their separate ways.

Or, Arthur thought as he continued to watch Eames' sleeping form, he could end this. He could do it right now. He could wake Eames up and say, "I did what I could, but you're on your own now." Arthur was sure Eames would accept it if he did. He doubted Eames would even be surprised—he'd probably been expecting it. That was a sad thought, but Arthur had to look at the bigger picture here. Yes, Eames was attractive. Yes, he needed Arthur's help. Yes, he was a Source, for whatever that was worth. But he was a danger, and that was something Arthur didn't need. It was possible the whole thing with Nash would blow over. It was just Eames he was after, anyway. Probably.

Arthur sighed, and began to prepare himself for what he would say to the man.

"No! N-no, don't..."

The voice came seemingly out of nowhere and Arthur jerked upright in his seat.

"I don't... how could you–"

Arthur saw it this time, Eames' mouth moving as he talked in his sleep. His whole body was tense, forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. He looked strangely small. Vulnerable, almost. His eyelashes fluttered in REM, his lush mouth parted in soundless pleading. Arthur felt like an intruder watching him like this, watching him suffer through the nightmare.

"Goddammit," Arthur sighed softly, reaching out to brush the matted hair from Eames' forehead. "You're making it really difficult for me to make a logical decision here." Eames whimpered a bit at the touch and turned into Arthur's hand. He imagined what it would be like to tell Eames he was on his own. He could picture it, the spark in those lively gray eyes going out, the light in him fading that little bit more. Arthur still hadn't reached a decision. But until he made up his mind to abandon him, Arthur owed it to Eames to do what he could. He trailed his fingers lower and shook the larger man by the shoulder.

Eames came awake instantly, and were it not for the sheet wrapped around his limbs, he'd have been thrashing. His eyes, wide and panicked, darted around before finally focusing on Arthur's face. "Hey," Arthur said soothingly, and slowly he felt the bunched muscles under his hand begin to relax, and the man's breathing returned to normal.

"I was..."

"Nightmare, yeah. Don't worry about it." When Arthur was reasonably sure Eames wasn't going to bolt, he pushed himself up and began digging through the kitchenette cabinets for some tea. It was unlikely to be what Eames was used to, but bad tea was better than none, he supposed. He excavated his mother's banged up old kettle from where it had been gathering dust behind the pots, rinsed it off and set it on the stove to heat. Eames watched him without comment as he worked, sheet drawn around his bare shoulders. The kettle began to whistle, and Arthur poured the steaming water over the teabag. "Milk and sugar?" he asked with a glance over his shoulder.

"If you've got it, yeah. One spoon." Eames' voice was hoarse and shaky. His eyes closed in relief when Arthur handed him the mug. "Ta." He didn't even drink it right away, just held the china between his hands as if he could absorb the warmth into the rest of his body.

Arthur left him for a moment to retrieve a glass of water for himself. He fully intended to go off to sleep now, or continue to mull over the situation in his own bedroom, anyway, but Eames still had that hunted look in his eye. So instead, Arthur motioned for him to scoot over and took a seat next to him on the couch. Eames gave him a mistrustful, sidelong glance, but he wasn't telling Arthur to leave, either. He supposed that was a good sign.

Eames took a sip of the cooling tea. "What are you doing?"

Arthur was about to answer that he didn't know what Eames was talking about, when he realized that yes, yes he did. And he didn't have an answer or an explanation. "I don't know."

"You were nearly killed because of me today. An assassin almost _killed_ you. And now I'm sitting in your flat sipping tea you made for me." Blocky fingers scratched at the stubble on his throat and gray eyes focused on the floor. "It just doesn't add up."

Arthur thought darkly back to ten minutes ago, when he'd still been pondering how to throw Eames out. He inhaled guiltily, afraid if he paused too long, Eames would figure out why. "Tell me about your parents," he blurted.

Eames' brow furrowed as he sipped at his tea, quite aware of the calculated non-sequitur. He let it slide. "What do you want to know?"

Arthur shrugged. "You said they're both Talents. What are they like?"

"Ha," Eames let out a humorless snort. "Stiff. Haughty as fuck. Entitled, lazy alcoholics. And bloody embarrassed of me, I should imagine." He tilted his head back and downed the rest of the tea in one gulp.

"Are they looking for you? If they know you ran away, they must know you're still alive. Surely after all these years they could look past you running?"

"They don't want me back," Eames answered without preamble. "If they could, I'm sure they'd have disowned me. Told everybody they'd never had a son." He slouched into the couch, deceptively casual with the empty mug dangling between his legs. "I was only twelve years old, but they called the search off after three days. As soon as it was socially acceptable to tell the public that the police had done all they could, but that somebody had probably dumped my body in the Thames ages ago. Oh, they were perfectly civil to me when they still had me in training to be the latest in the long line of Eames Talents, but the moment I ran away..."

Arthur remembered his mother, and the way she used to hold him close and whisper secrets into his hair. She would have done anything for him. His father, too. Even his stepmother had been kind to him growing up, despite Arthur's fears that she would be jealous of him as a legacy of his father's first wife. "I'm sorry," he said, low and sincere. "It must have been difficult."

Eames nodded. "It wasn't all bad, though. When I was nine or ten, they let me hang around with my uncle Phineas. Phineas Palmerston was a right twat," he laughed, "but he cared about me, at least. He was a merchant. Owned a little fleet of airships, about five or six. He used to sneak me shots of whiskey and take me for rides in his flagship, the _Extractor_. Soon as they decided he was a bad influence, though, my parents put an end to that."

The fond smile lingered for a moment, but then Arthur shifted on the couch and Eames seemed to come back to himself. He hung his head, staring at his hands.

"Do you have no one?" Arthur didn't mean it as a taunt, and Eames, ever perceptive, didn't take it for one. He turned his stormy gray eyes to Arthur, the slant of his mouth wry and tinged with sadness.

"I did, once. Recently, even. It's... it's why I've stayed in L.A. for so long. But not anymore."

And he looked so wounded, and small, but stoic at the same time, like he was made of scar tissue or broken bone that had healed stronger than before. Even muted like this, he was so vibrant and alive. The place where their thighs were pressed together seemed to burn, and Eames' eyes, still locked with his, were so deep Arthur could have gotten lost in them. It was in that moment that Arthur realized he wanted nothing more than to kiss him. He wanted to feel Eames' lips against his, the heat of his skin, his tongue. Arthur wanted all of him, and he didn't know why.

"I... should go to bed," he murmured, and his voice sounded distant and muffled in his own ears. "We'll deal with Nash—the assassin—tomorrow, alright?" Eames nodded silently at him and his body went on autopilot, putting his glass and Eames' mug in the sink, trimming the lamps, getting undressed and into bed without conscious thought or effort.

In the meantime, his mind was running circles around itself, all in search of the answer to one question. Eames' question. What the _hell_ was he doing?


	3. Doth, like a tree ever growing

Eames couldn't sleep. It wasn't because of nightmares this time, at least. No, it was far more frustrating—his stupid, hyperactive brain, and his dick. It seemed absurd that he even had the capacity to be aroused, considering everything that had happened. He'd had his magic effectively taken away, had nearly died of hunger and thirst, and then again by assassin. But Arthur had been kind, and so warm where their bodies had touched. The feel of Arthur's magic had somehow been comforting, as if it was whispering to him that the Stop wasn't forever. Even talking about his parents had only temporarily stifled how he'd felt.

Eames cursed and rolled over. He knew what this was—fucking _weakness_. It had happened before. Every time someone was nice to him, hell, every time someone was so much as civil, he turned into this pathetic little animal starving for table scraps of affection. It was a terrible cycle. He'd fall for someone, they'd rip his heart out through his throat and he'd feel fucking stupid for ever harboring anything toward them. He'd vow to man up, never to let it happen again, and it would work—until it happened again anyway. It was always the same, every damn time. And Arthur would be no different. He'd grow jealous of his power once the Stop was removed, or tire of him, or decide he was too much trouble. Eames didn't want to sit around waiting for it to happen, but he couldn't make himself leave. For some reason he couldn't let go.

It was easier to assure himself that all of this was simply because Arthur was a damn fine specimen of a human being. That last bit, at least, wasn't a lie or a denial. Every inch of the man he'd seen was exquisite. Even sleep-mussed and stumbling around in his pajama bottoms he was adorable. And for a moment there, Eames was sure Arthur had been about to kiss him.

Eames' hand darted under the waistband of his borrowed underwear, and he stifled a chuckle. Arthur wouldn't be wanting these back. He wasn't in the least guilty; how else was he supposed to sleep? Eames wrapped the hand around himself and imagined what Arthur's lips would feel like under his. Soft, probably. Yielding. Eames grabbed one of the couch pillows and stuffed the corner into his own mouth to muffle himself. He imagined it was Arthur's deft, uncallused hand stroking him instead of his own, and felt his cock jump. What would Arthur's mouth be like around Eames' cock? Warm, wet, pliant. For all Arthur was a bit prickly, Eames couldn't believe he was inexperienced—he was far too attractive to be untouched. The question was whether Arthur was as serious and detail-oriented in bed as he was out of it, or whether he went relaxed and wanton. Perhaps that curiosity he was always cursing got the better of him, and he liked trying interesting things.

Eames groaned into the pillow, thankful for the acoustic dampening properties the down afforded him, because bloody _hell _he could be loud. Imagining it had brought him so close. He could feel his balls tightening, teetering on the brink of orgasm.

What would Arthur be like when he fucked him?

Eames came with a gasp, sticky fluids coating his hand and the inside of the underwear. He felt the bowstring-tight tension leave his body, the stress of the day melting away. He felt good, despite the mess in his pants, and that was easily enough taken care of. He quietly tiptoed to the sink and wet a napkin, cleaning the evidence of what he'd done from his hand and the underwear.

Still, likely Arthur wouldn't want these back.

* * *

><p>Arthur was awakened the next morning before the sun had even risen in the sky by three sharp raps on the front door. There was only one person who knocked that way, and Arthur was on his feet before he'd even registered getting up. Eames was stretching and blinking sleepy-eyed at the interruption to his sleep when Arthur got to the door. He glanced through the peephole, just in case, but it was who he was expecting—or not expecting, as it were—to see.<p>

"Dom," he greeted as he opened the door.

"Arthur," Dom responded distractedly in turn, brushing past Arthur and immediately beginning to pace. "You don't understand how difficult it was to get here. Maurice Fischer had the police close off all the gates between districts and most of the tunnels. I had to backtrack at least six times, and a guard almost spotted me. I had to fucking Charm him into letting me through, Arthur. I–" He cut himself off mid-sentence, catching sight of Eames watching him from the couch with a puzzled look on his face. Dom spun on his heel, turning back to Arthur. "Who's this?"

"Dom, this is Eames. He's... a friend. Eames, Dom," he introduced them with the appropriate motions. "Now," he said, glancing in turn at his bare torso and pajama bottoms, and the clock on the wall, which read six-thirty. "Are you going to tell me what the hell this is about?"

Dom's face went blank. "You mean you hadn't heard?"

"Obviously not, mate," Eames piped in from the couch.

Dom ignored him and looked Arthur in the eye. "The Source of Los Angeles Temple has been murdered."

Arthur froze. He felt his stomach bottom out like somebody had pulled the floor from beneath his feet, but when the roaring in his ears had diminished enough for him to hear Dom asking what the hell was wrong, nothing had changed. It wasn't some fucked up dream. It was real. He glanced at Eames, who had gone ashen, then tore over to the window. When he threw it open, the resulting roar from the streets below made him jerk in surprise. It was pandemonium. The crowds weren't violent, but he could see the massive closed gates between districts from here, and the people packed around them. The monorail trains stood motionless on the raised tracks where they'd been stopped mid-journey. All of those people, trapped.

"The police have said they'll start letting people through in a few hours or so, after they've finished the initial investigation. They have no idea who did it. From what I've heard, it happened sometime early last night, but no one discovered the body until a couple of hours ago."

"Fucking hell," Eames breathed. "I'd met him once. Zeke Strudwick? He was a nice bloke."

Dom waved his hands. "Wait, back up for a sec. Ezekiel Strudwick, a 'nice bloke'? He was the fucking _Source of Los Angeles_. Do you have any idea what that means?" He squinted hard at Eames. "Arthur, who is this guy?"

Eames shot Arthur a significant glance, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

'_Are you sure_?' Arthur tried to ask with his eyes, and Eames nodded again.

Pained, Arthur ran a hand through his hair to push it back. "Sit down," he said, and pushed a resistant Dom into the chair. He hopped onto the counter top, letting his feet dangle. "We wouldn't be telling you this if it weren't immediately relevant. I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but believe me when I say it's true." He looked Dom hard in the eye. "Eames is a Source too."

Dom let out a rude guffaw. "Sorry, _this_?" he sneered, motioning at Eames' whole body. "Normally I appreciate your sense of humor, Arthur, but now is not the time–"

"He's not lying." Dom and Arthur were both compelled to turn by the sudden authority Eames' voice commanded. He pushed off the couch to stand at full height, and the sheet fluttered to the floor. Dom stared at the tattoos that wended their way around his body, and the single red mark in the center of his chest. Arthur knew Dom was as bad at reading the High language as he was, but there was no mistaking that the tattoos were a sign of something special.

Dom swallowed. "You-you're really...?"

"Yes."

And then Dom was surging to his feet, pushing his finger into Eames' chest and yelling. "If you're a Source, why aren't you helping? You could be doing something about all this!"

Eames took Dom by the shoulders and the other man flinched, but he merely guided him back to the chair. "Relax," Eames said, low and serious and absolutely an order. "I can't raise the dead even on a good day, and today, as you may have guessed, isn't a good day."

Arthur saw Dom's mutinous look and decided to cut in before he could start arguing again. "Somebody's put a Stop on him, Dom. I can't tell you the details, for your safety and your kids'. We're trying to get it sorted out, have the Stop removed, but until then, we're powerless." Eames' nostrils flared. "Well, we're pretty screwed, anyway."

Dom brought a hand to his head and started massaging the bridge of his nose. "It makes sense. Mal told me you'd stopped by the other night and asked her questions about her mother. It was because of him, right?" Arthur nodded. "Because he's a Source. Shit."

"I know it's hard to believe," Eames frowned. "It's true though, you know it is."

"So... why aren't you stationed in a temple?" was Dom's next question, the most logical place to go, and exactly where Arthur didn't want the conversation to lead.

"That doesn't matter now," he said, casting around the room for supplies. His bag, with his ID card, the small knife he used to carry back in his Uni days, rubbing alcohol, sterile cloths, bottles of water. "We have to find out what we can about this murder."

Dom, exasperated, escaped from where Eames had put him in the chair and began following. "And explain to me why we 'have' to do this, Arthur. Why can't we leave it to the police?"

"Because if he's thinking what I'm thinking," Eames said with his arms folded, "we just might know the identity of the killer."

Arthur stopped again in front of Dom. "Look, I don't want you getting involved in this. We're in some pretty deep shit, and I don't want you or Mal or the kids getting hurt. So I'm going to take you back home, alright?"

Dom's jaw worked, and when he was spoke he was so quiet that Arthur knew it was only with great difficulty that he refrained from hitting something. "Keep secrets from me all you want, Arthur. Tell me it's for my own good; whatever makes you feel better. But you do _not_ get to tell me to be careful, then run out and put yourself in danger." He straightened to his full height, using every inch he had on Arthur to his advantage. Arthur backed into the counter unconsciously. "My father is retired, but the police force still calls on him when big shit like this goes down. I'm going to telephone him and talk to him, and _ask him _what happened. And Source or not, you two are going to stay the fuck here, where you're safe. And if you have to pull some crazy stunt, you're going to do what you normally do when you're not panicking, and you're going to plan it down to the last anal-retentive detail. Alright?"

Arthur felt his blood boil. He was twenty-nine fucking years old and Dom still thought he had the right to order Arthur around? It rankled that Dom still played big brother. The older friend, the Talent to be looked up to. The wiser one. '_Fuck you_,' Arthur wanted to spit, but the very worst part was knowing Dom was right. If leaving the apartment without a plan had been a bad idea yesterday, it was a terrible one now.

More unexpected was Eames' agreement. "Dom's right, you know," he said. "There's no need for you to put yourself and your sister in jeopardy just yet."

Arthur's eyes darted from Dom to Eames, and he could physically feel the fight draining from him. In its place rose the realization that, apparently without his own conscious knowledge, he'd made his decision about Eames. He'd packed his bag without a second thought. It was terrifying and exhilarating and reassuring all at once that in the end, he and his conscience agreed.

He wanted to help.

"Fine," he said quietly, shaken. "Do you at least want me to take you home, Dom?"

"Straight to the house and back here," Dom glared.

Arthur gave a terse nod and held out his hand, wishing he could Warp Dom by hitting him in the mouth instead.

* * *

><p>"Your friend is a right piece of work," Eames said casually when Arthur folded back into existence, still in his pajamas, no less. Arthur shot him a hard look and sank into his chair. "Clearly he cares about you, though."<p>

"He needs to mind his own fucking business."

"Settle down there," Eames warned, stretching a foot out and kicking at the leg of Arthur's chair. "You know he had a point."

Arthur continued to scowl, but grudgingly he began to speak. "I know, and you're right. I've just had to put up with his patronizing bullshit for twenty years, and it's gotten old. He and his wife Mal are my best friends, but there's only so much I can take."

"I understand," Eames offered, even though he absolutely did not. Dom's and Arthur's dichotomous relationship was completely foreign to him. How you could be affectionate toward someone one moment and want to strangle them the next was a mystery beyond Eames' comprehension. Either you hated someone, or you didn't. Eames wasn't exactly sure what it was he felt toward Arthur, but it certainly wasn't hate. He knew he couldn't put off examining his feelings forever, but he'd prefer to do it sometime when they didn't have to deal with mayhem in the streets.

As if on cue, the telephone began to ring. Arthur darted out of his chair and picked up the handset. "Hello?" His eyes widened and he nodded. '_It's Dom's father_,' he mouthed.

"That was quick." Eames watched with keen interest the way Arthur's expression went from alert interest, to shock, to puzzlement and finally settling on something uncomfortably close to dread. Eames picked the sheet up off the floor and began to fold it, just to give himself something to do with his hands while Arthur mumbled uh-huhs and yeahs.

It was so fucking frustrating, being in the middle of this clusterfuck and unable to do anything. He hated being useless, helpless. He could feel Arthur's magic even from here, the way it twined about him and rippled in his wake. There were enchantments in the walls, the windows, the door, and if Eames reached out, he could almost touch them. Even now he tried calling to them. But it was the same as every time before; nothing happened. Eames realized with a start that the ripping noise he was hearing was coming from him, the sheet pulled taut in his grip, so he dropped it and sank back into the couch.

"Okay, thank you. sir. Talk to you later," Arthur was saying. He hung up the phone with a dull click and turned to Eames, eyes grave.

"What level of ridiculous, over-the-top fuckery have we descended to now?" Eames sighed.

"The police found only one clue at the scene of the crime, but it's enough for us. There was a single, unidentifiable thumbprint on one of the marble columns near the Source's body, left in bloodwell ink."

"Fuck."

"My thoughts exactly," Arthur said with a wry smirk. "You know what this means, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Eames rubbed at his temples with the pads of his thumbs. "It means whoever wants me dead, whoever sent Nash after me, isn't just interested in killing me. They're after _every Source_." It seemed insane, when the end result would be essentially the death of magic, but there were those who would want it. The things he knew. He shook his head. He had a fucking headache, his stomach was tied in knots, his blood racing as his heart sped.

"Eames."

But Eames didn't feel like talking about this anymore, or talking to Arthur at all, so he ignored him.

"Jonathan," Arthur tried, and damn him, that got Eames' attention. He lifted his head and stared, one eyebrow raised in a question. Arthur opened his mouth to speak again, but thought the better of it. He moved back over to the couch where Eames sat and settled in beside him again, just like he had last night. Arthur's magic played over Eames' skin like a gentle caress, and Eames tried not to flinch at the sensation. The slender man seemed to realize his discomfort, so he stayed still until Eames had relaxed a bit.

"I know this must be terrible for you," he started, and Eames let out a snort. Understatement of the fucking century. But Arthur remained undaunted. "I know it's got to be excruciating. But I'm going to keep my promise to you, Jonathan. I'm going to find somebody who can get rid of that Stop. I have ways. I just..." he trailed off, and Eames felt the warmth of his skin as he settled his palm over Eames'. Their eyes met, and though Arthur was uncertain, he looked hopeful. "When we get your magic back... do you think we can make it?"

They were so close. Their thighs touched, and their faces were mere inches away. Arthur looked so young in this moment, so trusting. Eames knew Arthur expected him to stick around when the Stop was gone and help them fight Nash off if he threatened them. The thing was, Eames had fully intended to skip town the moment his magic was back. But Arthur was imploring him with his dark eyes, the set of his jaw, the optimistic tilt to the corners of his mouth. Eames felt something inside him break. This was his fault, after all. His fault Arthur was in danger to begin with, and if he could set it right... He relaxed into a fond smile and moved his free hand atop Arthur's. "Darling, Nash won't stand a chance."

"Thanks," Arthur smiled back, and then he kissed him. Eames startled, certain this couldn't be real, but it was. One second they were having a conversation, and then Arthur's lips were moving against his. It was slow and sweet and experimental. No tongue, just the gentle repeated brush of their mouths as if they were speaking incantations into one another. Arthur's hand came up hesitantly to touch the side of Eames' face, fingers brushing the days-old growth of stubble along his jaw. Eames made a helpless noise against Arthur's mouth—and the spell was broken.

Arthur backed away all at once, the color drained from his face. "Eames, I–what the fuck, I don't even know what just came over me. Everything's going to pot outside, and we need a plan, and here I am just—shit, I am so fucking sorry," he babbled, scooting further along the couch.

'_Fuck it_,' Eames thought, and followed him in. He wrapped an arm around Arthur's shoulders and pulled him close, and this time his tongue darted out to trace along Arthur's lower lip. Arthur tensed at first, but then he let out a little moan and shuddered into Eames' hold. This was such a bad fucking idea, and Eames knew he was going to regret it again later, but Arthur was so soft and pliant under him. He was everything Eames had imagined. Eames' hands went of their own volition to card through the hair Arthur hadn't had the chance to gel yet, soft and wavy and luxuriant. Arthur's own hands stroked down Eames' skin, across his chest and biceps, tracing the lines of tattoos and scars and making him shiver. By the time they broke apart, both of them were breathless.

"I, um," Arthur panted. His lips were swollen and pink, his eyes glazed.

"You don't have to say anything." Eames murmured. "Just let it be." Arthur gave a slow nod and eased against him.

'_Let it be_,' Eames repeated to himself. '_Take a deep breath and relax_.' If only he were better at following his own advice.

* * *

><p>Eames' warmth still radiated against Arthur's body when he stirred awake a few hours later. They hadn't done anything more, just fallen asleep on the couch together, but Arthur felt better nonetheless. The fog of panic he'd felt earlier appeared to have faded and condensed into his usual sharp, levelheaded focus. He'd finally come to a decision about Eames: he was going to do what felt right. And at the moment, that meant staying here with Eames as he slowly came awake himself, eyelashes brushing against Arthur's skin.<p>

"This seems like a more reasonable hour to be awake," Eames rumbled after a jaw-cracking yawn.

Arthur glanced at the clock and saw that it was now nearly ten in the morning. "Agreed." He got up to check the situation outside, which, while still dire, appeared to have eased a bit. The police and their automatons had done their job well, and the crowds outside the gates had diminished significantly. Dirigibles kept watch from the sky; both the police vessels and Maurice Fischer's own Guard. He felt most for the poor berobed twelve-year-olds who would return home frightened and disappointed on what should have been their big day. Arthur's eyes scanned the City skyline, picking out the buildings he'd need to visit as he mentally compiled his list of contacts.

But Eames, who was still sitting on the couch and watching him, just looked tired.

"Would you be amenable to eggs and bacon before we get down to business?" he offered, and Eames sent him a brilliant smile in return.

"Sounds nice."

Neither of them commented on what had happened between them earlier, though Arthur could feel Eames watching him as he started up the stove. He wondered what Eames was thinking, whether he regretted it, or if he'd like to try it again sometime. Arthur, for one, was at peace with what they'd done. It had happened, it was nice, and he'd like for it to happen again. It was what he'd needed to finally put everything in perspective.

Dom had been right, at least about the risk-taking. Someone like Arthur, who valued planning and strategy, should have known better than to get carried away. A logical solution to the Nash conundrum lurked somewhere below the surface; he just had to find it and draw it out.

No, illogical risk-taking was far more suited to things like making out with attractive and potentially powerful renegade Sources, and asking them if they'd like to move to second base.

"If you think too hard, you'll burn the bacon," Eames chuckled. He'd risen from the couch and started setting out plates and silverware. Arthur was struck with how domestic it felt—that though he'd only known Eames a few days, this seemed routine.

"You focus on yours, I'll focus on mine," he grinned back.

Arthur's breakfast cooking wasn't as good as Eames', but it was passable for bachelor chow. He fought down a prideful blush when Eames made a pleased noise over his first bite of bacon. The sunlight came in bright and cheery through the window, at odds with everything going on in the fucked up world outside, and Arthur was intensely glad for this moment of peace. The light cut swathes over Eames' skin, illuminating him in patches. He looked so, so inviting with his eyes closed and his lips drawn into a faint smile.

"So," Eames said, cracking an eyelid. "Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to kiss me?"

Arthur's heart stuttered in his chest, and he attempted futilely not to choke on his sip of water. Eames was watching him still, with an amused glint in his eye, the smile gone over fully to smirk. Arthur forced down a blush and examined the man sitting across from him. He'd been sure that what Eames said was in jest, but the man across from him seemed perfectly serious.

"Well?"

"I want to. There's something I have to say, though," Arthur said, breaking eye contact and shifting in his chair uncomfortably. Eames leaned in, inviting, and Arthur sucked in a deep breath. "I wasn't sure of what I was doing until this morning. Whether I was really going to help you, or whether I'd give up trying and... and show you the door. I'm sorry. I... had to be honest."

Arthur glanced up at Eames, expecting to see anger, or at the very least, disapproval. But something in Eames' expression had changed. Instead of the amusement from before, there was something warmer and fonder behind his gray eyes. Something touched.

"What made you change you change your mind?" he said softly, and Arthur realized—the coolness and the casualness of his invitation for Arthur to kiss him were a front. Eames was just as scared, just as lost as Arthur. He really did need Arthur, and, just maybe, he really did want him. Perhaps no one had ever loved Eames fully and honestly before.

"You," Arthur answered. "All this shit going on—the murder, the assassin, even the fact that you're a Source, and I could stand to gain by helping you—it's all incidental." He allowed himself a tentative smile. "I'm doing this because I made a promise to a man who I believe is a good person. Who not only needs the help, but deserves it."

Something in Eames' expression changed almost imperceptibly. "If you say so," he said, mouth quirking at the corner.

"Look," Arthur said, his heart thumping in his chest as he placed a hand on Eames' shoulder. "I don't really care about your past. You've lived the way you had to."

Eames gazed at Arthur's hand rather than look directly at him again. "I... I have," he agreed after a moment, and the tension began to leach from his body.

It was important to Arthur that he gain Eames' trust—for selfish reasons, like having his charitable feelings toward the man validated, but also because he genuinely believed he could be that person. The one who cared about him, despite his faults, and set his past aside. He wanted to be that person for Eames' sake, as well. This feeling was foreign to Arthur, who at most usually admitted only a grudging like for anyone who wasn't Dom, Mal, or family, but it was kind of nice. Maybe it was reckless, getting this close to someone, but Arthur had never been truly shy. He'd give this a chance.

"Can I... take you up on that offer?"

Something almost like relief flashed across Eames' features, and his mouth quirked into a more familiar saucy smile. "Absolutely," he said, just before he brought their lips together.

* * *

><p>Eames swallowed the guilt and the self-hatred welling up in his throat and allowed himself to drown inside Arthur's mouth. Some part of him was still self-castigating for making himself so <em>easy<em>, but it was very difficult to care when Arthur tasted so good and felt so hot pressed against him. Arthur had abandoned his chair and climbed into Eames', a warm, heavy weight stretched out atop him. Eames could feel the outline of his hard cock through the thin materials of his trousers and Arthur's pajamas. Arthur ground into him, and a moan forced its way up Eames' throat. It reverberated through Arthur's body, like an incredible feedback loop from Eames' cock, to Arthur, and back again. Arthur's magic touched him like a velvet glove, like a fire, twining around his spine in tendrils. It felt good. It felt _right_. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, to be with someone who knew his secret and yet looked at him in the same way as someone who didn't know. He hadn't felt this safe in a long time. Not since–

Laughing, pale eyes.

This was wrong, this was wrong, this was...

"What is it?" Arthur asked, blinking at him through the sunlight that turned his eyes to warm honey. "Is something the matter?" He slid off Eames' chair and back onto his own.

Eames could see the gears turning in Arthur's head, the guilt that maybe he'd moved too fast for Eames, or scared him off. It was the last thing Eames wanted him to feel so he cut in to interrupt Arthur's thoughts. "It's not you at all. I do want it. It's just..." he trailed off, and gestured vaguely at the world around them. "Everything. Murder, assassination, the City going into lockdown... It's hard to concentrate." He was such a lying fucking tool.

The furrow didn't disappear from Arthur's brow, but he seemed to believe and understand Eames' prevarications, at least. "It's okay, I get it," he said softly. "You're totally right. If you want, we can start planning our mode of attack right now." He ran a hand through the hair at the base of Eames' neck, his touch gentle. "I've got some ideas."

"That would... mean a lot," Eames said with a halfhearted smile. Worthless.

"Then let's get started," Arthur smirked back. "We can do it, I know we can. Then, if you want, we can get back to... well, _this_."

"I'd say it's a good plan so far, then." Eames could only hope that in this light, Arthur couldn't see the way the smile he'd wrapped his words in didn't quite reach his eyes.

_Lies, lies, lies._

* * *

><p>Dom was Arthur's first contact. He knew that in order for this to work, he'd have to apologize. Apologies were not something Arthur took lightly, so he spent the ten minutes before he Warped to Dom's home going over the words in his head.<p>

Still, when he'd left Eames and reappeared on the balcony of Dom's and Mal's home, it was hard not to go in swinging and open the conversation with an insult. It was Phillippa's presence on Dom's hip that ultimately dissuaded him.

"Hey," he said instead, with a jerk of his head in Dom's direction. "And hello to you especially, Phillippa." The little girl went pink in the ears the same way she did every time Arthur spoke to her, and buried her face in her father's chest.

"Want something else already?" Dom asked, though not unkindly. He set Phillippa on the ground and she raced inside through the open sliding door.

Arthur let out a long, whistling sigh and choked his hubris down as best he could. "Look. I'm sorry about earlier. You were right, and I was panicking, and it was unfair of me to spring this on you without explaining."

Dom listened with narrowed eyes; he knew better than to think this was easy for Arthur. "I appreciate it," he said, coming closer to stand beside him and lean against the balcony railing. "I appreciate your concern for me, too. But you may as well be family to me, and if you're in danger... I'd like to help in whatever way I can. I make my own decisions when I'm fully informed of all the risks." He smiled, a little tense, but honest. "You know how I am."

Arthur glanced over the balcony to the thirty story drop below—case in point. "Alright," he sighed. "But I need to talk to Mal at the same time, if you don't mind."

"Granted," Dom agreed. "If this is about the murder of Sources, her help could be invaluable."

"And can we talk over scotch? On the rocks, maybe?"

"You're pushing it, Arthur," Dom grinned and bumped shoulders with him. "But I'll see what I can do."

Mal had just put the children down for a nap when she joined the two men at the wet bar. She snagged Arthur's scotch from him and took an unhealthy swig. When she turned to face his glare, her eyes were too bright. "All of the things happening around us have me a little tense," she said. "I'm concerned for the children, you know." Arthur pushed the scotch back at her. She needed it more, anyway.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this. I'll try to keep you safe and uninvolved in any way that I can, but I think that Eames and I can put a stop to whatever's going on. I need your help for that."

"I will do whatever it takes to keep my children safe," she replied, her smile sharp. "Tell me what you need."

Arthur gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "First of all, I could use Dom's and your help convincing the linchpin of this whole operation not to strangle me."

"That might be difficult," Dom grinned, "but I think we'll manage."

* * *

><p>Ariadne gaped when she opened the door of her dorm room to see Arthur, Mal and Dom in tow. "Arthur!" she cried, dragging him in by the wrist. "What are you all doing here? Did you hear about the murder? What's going on?"<p>

"Slow down, ma petite," Mal smiled, following them inside and patting Ariadne fondly on the head. To this day, only she and Arthur could get away with that particular gesture of affection. "We have a lot to tell you about."

"Or I do, anyway," Arthur said. "You may want to sit down." Ariadne obeyed, but she watched him with hawklike brown eyes as he wracked his brain for the best way to explain why he'd lied to her.

"I guess I should preface this with an apology," he started. "You didn't deserve to be lied to, or to be the last person who found out about this. The mugger yesterday... wasn't a mugger. It was an assassin."

Ariadne shook her head. "What kind of drugs have you been smoking? Because, no. How is that even possible?"

Arthur didn't blame her for disbelieving—coming from his relatively quiet background, he wouldn't have believed it himself had it not happened to him. "We went to go visit Eames' apartment at Market and Residential yesterday to see if we could find any clues as to who put the Stop on him and left him to die. His apartment was completely trashed, and some guy dropped out of a hole in the ceiling from the floor above and started kicking our asses."

"Interstice," Ariadne realized with a slight quaver in her voice. "That's why Eames told me not to go. Arthur, I can't... Holy shit."

"I know," he said apologetically. "I just didn't want you to worry. Eames and I are tangled up in some serious shit right now. The murder of the Los Angeles Source, even."

"_What_?" Ariadne stood, but Dom took her by the shoulders and guided her back down.

"The assassin. He's not just after Eames. We think he was the one who killed the Source as well, because he's been using bloodwell ink in his incantations."

"But what do Eames and the Source of Los Angles have in common, that an assassin would go after..." Arthur could see Ariadne's thought process unfolding, saw her making connections. Her eyes went wide, her hands gripping the sheets, and Dom kept a hold on her shoulders as she shifted and leaned in toward Arthur. "The Stop. The desert. All those tattoos. Eames is a–" She gasped. "Arthur, _no_."

"Yes, actually," he sighed. His heart twisted in regret, but he knew that now was not the time to defend his actions to Ariadne. Whatever he'd done, he'd done, and all he could do now was trust in his half-sister. And trust her he did, to the ends of the earth. When Dom released his hold on her, she shot off the bed to engulf him in a surprisingly strong hug.

"We have to help him," Ariadne said quietly into his waistcoat, and this, _this_ was one of the many reasons Arthur loved her so dearly. "You may have managed to keep me out of this for a while, but I'm in it for good now. No take-backsies." She laced her fingers together and cracked all her knuckles as one. "Careful planning may be your purview, Arthur, and we'll need that, but we all know who's better at kicking ass." Dom snorted and Mal laughed; Arthur was less amused—he knew she was serious.

"We need a game plan."

Arthur mustered a smile for her. "I know."

* * *

><p>Eames disliked Mal the moment he met her. He was sure that she was a beautiful and kind person subjectively, but to him, she was simply overwhelming. He felt as if her huge blue eyes saw right through him as she took his hand and gave an old-fashioned, elegant little curtsy.<p>

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eames," she said in her lilting French accent. "Arthur's told me of your predicament, and as I'm somewhat familiar with your situation, he's asked for my help." Then without Eames' permission or expectation, she placed a hand over the Stop in the center of his chest. Despite the muting effects of the spell, he could feel Mal's magic touching his, testing it. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

"What are you–" he started, but Mal interrupted with a slow smile.

"It's very faint, but I can feel it. You are the same as my mother was." She pulled her hand away and opened her eyes again, her gaze shrewd and scrutinizing. "Or even more powerful, perhaps. You learned to use your magic without the restrictions that a Source growing up in the temple might have had."

She was right, of course. Eames didn't doubt that any of the judgments she'd made about him, whether aloud or to herself, were untrue. But instead of validated, he was left feeling violated. The smile he offered her in return was a false one—though of course it was likely she saw through that as well.

Ariadne's hug, when she gave it, was far more welcome. She looked at him not with scrutiny or pity, but with hope and something verging on admiration. "We'll figure this out," she assured him.

He gave her a bracing squeeze. "I hope so."

By the afternoon, Arthur's tiny living area and kitchenette had become a veritable war room. Eames sat uncomfortably on the couch between Dom and Mal, Ariadne in the chair, while Arthur diagrammed on a large, rolling blackboard every piece of information they knew.

"Okay," Arthur clapped his hands together, ridding them of chalk dust. "We'll start with you, Eames. What do you remember from before you woke up in the desert?"

"I," Eames coughed. His stomach twisted with nerves as Arthur, Mal, Dom and Ariadne all stared him expectantly. "I don't remember the attack on my apartment. Maybe the vaguest, fleeting memories of discomfort, but not the wall being blown out, or being taken to the desert, or having the Stop put on me."

"What about before that? You said you'd been in the City for close to a year; is it possible anyone else knew that you're a Source?"

No, no no no. Arthur's question was reasonable enough, but Eames felt his hackles rising nonetheless. "Is there anyone in this city who's _not_privy to my inmost secrets?" he bit out, perhaps more forcefully than he'd intended.

"Quit being dramatic," Ariadne shot. Eames turned his head sharply to stare at her. "Nobody is going to rat you out. Not me, not Dom or Mal, not Arthur, not even Yusuf. And Yusuf's kind of a jerk."

Now the rest of them were watching Eames too; Arthur confused, Dom speculative and Mal calculating as ever. Eames closed his eyes and took a deep breath to block them all out. "Sorry," he murmured. "It's just hard."

"Whatever you can tell us," came Arthur's voice, reassuring.

Eames rubbed at his temples. "I don't think it's possible that anyone tracked me here from Phoenix, or from New Orleans before that. Before New Orleans, I had a bit of trouble from mercenaries in Prague, but it's a near impossibility for them to have followed me all this way. No," he said, blinking his eyes open to stare at the empty column Arthur had labeled 'Threats'. "The force behind all this is someone from this City."

"Did you tell anyone else besides us that you're a Source?" Ariadne tried as Arthur scrawled the clue Eames had given them on the board.

"Tell? No," Eames said uncertainly. He'd ended up drunk and in bars plenty of times, but he'd spent his whole life cultivating his paranoia. There was hardly any chance he'd slipped up in public accidentally before now, or at least he would have remembered it. "The likeliest thing is that someone saw something they shouldn't have. I've made mistakes and used my powers reflexively many times."

"In self-defense, to save your own skin?" Dom wondered aloud. "How many times should you have died, were it not for your abilities?"

"They used to call me Joãozinho de Novevidas in São Paulo. Johnny Nine-Lives," Eames explained with a smirk. He'd had some good times there; maybe he'd go back someday after all this bullshit was over.

"Maybe we ought to look closer at what we know about Nash," Ariadne suggested. Arthur tossed her the chalk, and she stepped up to the blackboard and began to write in neat block lettering. "Yusuf asked to be left out of it, so we're running on what he told Arthur. We know he sells his wares indiscriminately, even to assassins, but that he doesn't deal with them personally. Yet, he'd heard of Nash. Dom, you're sure you know nothing about him? Nothing your father's ever said about police business relating to him?"

Dom scratched at his chin. "He's probably after my father's time. I don't remember him ever mentioning the guy."

"Okay," Ariadne muttered, taking note. "So he's known well enough in the world of assassins, but he's not a household name. Still, I'm sure his services come at a hefty price."

"Well, we know that whoever's employing him is certainly serious," Arthur spoke up. "Remember that attacking both the known and the _unknown_ Source in the City implies that it's _every_ Source this man–"

"Or woman."

"Yes, or woman, Ariadne, is after. Having such a major figure murdered is a huge risk. Perhaps money is no object to this person in light of what they're planning."

"Which is essentially the death of magic." Ariadne scrawled the last three words under Arthur's column 'Motive' and underlined them with quick, sharp swipes of chalk. She took a step back and stared, suddenly faced with the gravity of the situation. "We're pretty fucked, aren't we?"

"Probably," Arthur agreed. He plucked the chalk out of her hand and in the last empty third of the board, wrote, 'Assets'. "We're not out of the game, though. Mal, here's where you come in." He began making bullets of names Eames had never heard; David Castigere, Harold Stein, Mr. Charles. "These are the people I still have connections with through my mother. You?" He gestured at Mal, who tapped thoughtfully at her temple.

"Nicolas Cobol, Lysandra Perlin, Margo Zanasi, and of course my father. But what sort of criteria are you looking for?"

Here was where Eames could contribute to the plan. He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the red ink of the Stop, which looked as fresh and burned as intensely as the day it was made. "What we need first is somebody powerful enough to remove a Stop written in bloodwell ink." Once the Stop was removed, Eames could finally carry his own weight in the whole matter. Now that he was prepared, Nash oughtn't be any match for him.

"Mr. Charles deals in magical security. When we've got your powers back, maybe he can help equip us to set up a trap for Nash." Arthur circled the name in a thick line.

"Lysandra Perlin is a dreadful gossip," Mal smiled, "and she knows nearly everyone of consequence in the City. I can drop a name or two and see what connections she comes up with. Perhaps we can root out the identity of Mr. Nash's employer while we search for someone capable of removing the Stop."

"In the meantime, I can keep my ear on all the police channels with my father's wireless," Dom offered. "I have to be useful somehow."

"Do that," Arthur nodded, "but don't let the children out of your sight. I know you trust this babysitter of yours, but on the off-chance Nash figures out your connection to us, babysitters will run and save themselves if the kids are threatened."

"He won't get near the children." Mal's eyes were sharp, dangerous, her delicate fingers clenched into fists. "I won't let him."

Eames still didn't like her, but he decided that maybe he admired her. He offered another smile, honest this time, and she returned it with force.

"Have we got a plan, then?" Eames asked. It still felt wrong to him that these people were fighting his battles, but at least he was confident in Arthur and Ariadne's tactical skills.

"I believe we have," Arthur grinned.


	4. From that blessed root

"I still don't like this," Arthur said under his breath, his heart thundering in his ribcage. He jerked Eames by the cinch of his vest and the larger man stumbled back around the corner with him. Where he'd been about to emerge from their alley hiding place, a clunking four-legged police automaton lumbered past.

When the steam-spewing automaton and its handler were gone, Eames fixed Arthur with a glare. "Must I _really_ wear the waistcoat?"

"Must we really travel through the City on foot?" Arthur challenged him right back, because he'd be damned if every mental warning bell he possessed wasn't clamoring right now.

"You remember what happened last time we tried Warping."

Arthur glanced down at his own shirtsleeves, less his own favorite vest and sighed. Not even the incantations he'd read from his mother's _Handy Household Spellbook_ had been effective at ridding the garment of vomit stains. "Just be careful."

"I'm always careful," Eames grinned, and he took Arthur by the hand and darted with him across the street and into the next alleyway.

It had been only three days of calling on contacts since the gathering in Arthur's apartment, but already they had a name, courtesy of Mal's friend Cobol: Ichiro Saito. Neither Arthur nor Eames nor any of the others had ever heard of him, but they'd recognized the name of his company as soon as they'd heard it uttered. Proclus Global. Maurice Fischer and his ilk had governed the Los Angeles city-state for so long that it was difficult to remember a time when they hadn't been pulling the strings on elections and dipping their fingers into the judicial and police sectors. But ten years ago, one dark horse corporation had risen in the sole direct challenge to Fischer's power. Proclus. Rumor had it that Proclus could no longer compete, but when Arthur had tried to research further, he'd hit a dead end every time. There had to be more than met the eye.

"I have no direct connections to this Mr. Saito," Mal had said as she explained the situation earlier that morning. "No connections and no way in; all I have is the name. If you do manage to see him, you must appeal directly to his sense of sympathy for help. His charity."

"Let's hope he's feeling charitable, then," Eames had answered with a thin-lipped smile.

Now it was late afternoon, and Arthur could see their destination from here. The Proclus Global building towered over most of the City landscape, though it spent the better part of the sunlight hours in the Fischer building's shadow. It was on the near side of Central District, just a wall away from where they stood near the edge of Residential. And since Maurice Fischer had yet to allow the trains between districts to resume operations, herein lay the difficult part. The police had set up checkpoints at every gate, and they were asking for ID. This wasn't a problem for Arthur, but for Eames... According to Dom, some of the police could be bought off, but there was no way of telling who. The likeliest option was still the tunnels.

Arthur's keen eyes tracked left and right, taking in every passing pedestrian on the one busy street that lay between them and the wall. His ears listened for suspicious sounds, any sign that they were being followed. Arthur had no illusions that the relative quiet of the past few days meant that Nash was gone.

"Let's go." The two of them strolled out of the alley and merged into the crowd of people as if they'd been there all along. They dodged a steam car, a pram and a couple of horse-drawn carriages to get to the other side of the street, and then they were at the wall. Up close, the ten-story structure seemed to bear down on them like a crouching giant watching their every move. Arthur shivered; Eames was unfazed. Within five minutes of walking along the massive brick structure, Eames had found the concealed entrance to a tunnel behind a wrecked and grimy sofa. The entrance, carved away little by little over the course of decades, yawned like a dragon's throat.

"Spooky," Eames called into the opening. No bats or skulking teenagers or assassins came out, so they took their chances and entered.

It had been years since Arthur had resorted to using one of the rough, makeshift passageways, and this route was unfamiliar to him. He found himself gravitating closer to Eames as they began to traverse the magically carved tunnel in a crouch. Within twenty feet the sunlight from outside had given way to total darkness. The air, thick and cloying, stank of decay.

"This would be the perfect place for an ambush," Arthur muttered. The sound of his voice bounced back to him, close in the pressing black of the tunnel.

"I'll thank you not to say things like that," Eames said from a few feet ahead as he groped around for the walls. "Creepy enough without it."

Arthur agreed. More than once he felt his feet connect with objects that sounded like bones as they skittered along the floor. He decided not to examine that thought any further.

Within a few minutes, the air began to smell fresher, and within five, he could see dim light at the end of the tunnel. Eames stopped them at the exit and moved aside the ratty sheet which covered it, peering out to the world beyond. "We're safe." The two men stepped through into the back streets of Central District, home of the University, the temple, most of the major corporations—and this mysterious Saito.

Proclus Global was a difficult building to approach. Getting around the highly policed Central was safer and easier, as they had less to fear from Nash—nobody was going to pick them off here in broad daylight—but the building itself was heavily guarded. The squat stone fence around the perimeter of the building looked easy enough to scale, but the men patrolling with air rifles posed a bit more of a challenge. Finally Arthur decided on a direct approach, and he grabbed a nervous Eames by the wrist and strolled toward the entrance. The guards permitted them inside the fence with hardly a glance, but when they reached the massive front door, they were stopped.

"Who are you, and where do you think you're going?" asked the man—the head of security, according to the badge on his chest. A quick word from Arthur about his identity was enough to raise eyebrows, but apparently not enough to get them in.

"Please, we need to see Mr. Saito," Arthur entreated him, and the guard laughed. He motioned at Eames, who stood sheltered behind Arthur, anxiously shifting his weight.

"I know who you are, Mr. Rydell, and I know people who could probably vouch for you. But your friend here is a mystery. You want to get in, you'll have to talk to Tadashi."

"Tadashi?" Arthur asked. He was about to inquire as to how to speak with him when the guard glanced at the space behind Arthur and Eames and grinned.

"Here he is now."

* * *

><p>It made sense that a man of Ichiro Saito's stature would have his own personal automatons, but Eames wasn't expecting them to serve as his greeters. Tadashi stood at the same height as Eames, though his form was far slenderer. Far shinier, too—Tadashi was made not of flesh, but of hundreds of intricate gears and pinions and solenoids. If he listened, Eames could hear a faint <em>tik-tik <em>from within him. Clockwork automatons were rare and expensive and notoriously difficult to program. Eames could feel the traces of magic that gave him life from where he stood. They were exquisite, beyond the usual level of sorcery one would expect from somebody who wasn't a Source, or at least a Talent.

Arthur must have sensed it too, for his eyes went wide and he moved unconsciously closer to Eames.

Only Tadashi's face appeared human. When he smiled at them, it was almost convincing. "My master has been waiting for you," he said in a voice like wind chimes.

"You sure they're alright?" asked the guard, with another hard look at Eames.

"Do your job," Tadashi grinned, shark-like. The guard shrank back away from the door, lowering his air rifle, and Tadashi ushered them inside with a bow.

Eames was unsure how something made of metal could be so quiet, but Tadashi didn't make a sound as he led them through the Proclus building's monstrous Japanese-style entrance hall. At the end was a gilded lift, guarded by two more men, who nodded as Tadashi pulled the intricately-cast doors open. The buttons advertised the different sections of the building; floors one through five were for meetings, six through ten for accounting, eleven through thirty were office space, and so forth until the pinnacle, the otherwise unmarked seventy-seventh floor. Tadashi pushed the button in question with a flourish.

"There's no fourth floor," Arthur pointed out. "Or forty-fourth."

"Are you a man of superstition, Arthur Rydell?" the automaton turned and asked him, and Arthur shook his head no. Tadashi's eyes slid back to the number plate. "Perhaps you should be." A visible shudder ran down Arthur's spine, but he said nothing.

As the elevator began to ascend and opportunity arose, Eames leaned in and surreptitiously examined Tadashi up close. Most of his workings and his mainspring were brass, but here and there Eames spotted the glitter of ruby, sapphire and garnet. He wondered whether Saito had created Tadashi himself, and if so, what kind of man he was.

"Yes," Tadashi chimed, and Eames jerked upright.

"What?"

"I was created by my master, Mr. Saito, by his own hands." Tadashi twisted to face him, raising one incredibly complex hand and flexing the brass digits one by one.

"How did you–"

"Because it's the question everybody asks," Tadashi explained. "What everyone wants to know." And Eames was sure that the automaton could sense the multitude of other questions forming in Eames' head, but all Tadashi did was smile a sly little smile and pull open the elevator door as it dinged their arrival to floor seventy-seven.

When they reached the door to Saito's office, Tadashi didn't do so much as knock.

"How does he know we're coming?" Arthur leaned in and whispered in Eames' ear, and all Eames could do was shrug. Even to him, the ways of wizards like Saito was a mystery. It was readily apparent, however, that Saito possessed immense power. The _years _he must have spent, learning incantations, experimenting...

The door opened onto a wide, airy office with a floor-to-ceiling window and a spectacular view of the City. Near the window was a heavy mahogany desk, at which sat a man in a formal kimono. Ichiro Saito was not a terribly large man, but Eames could feel the presence of his magic from here. It radiated from him in waves. There was a very specific pattern to the statues and ornaments placed around the room—magical feng shui, meant to amplify his power.

Saito watched them with dark, liquid eyes as they entered. Behind him stood a second mechanical man, who at a nod from his master, turned and moved to join Tadashi. The two of them directed Arthur and a wary, alert Eames into a pair of comfortable chairs.

"Tadashi? Kaneda? Please wait outside," Saito said in a voice rich like silk.

When the two automatons had exited the room and the doors shut with a quiet click, Saito leaned forward, his hands steepled with his fingers laced together.

"Mr. Saito, I want to thank you for–" Arthur started. Saito merely held up a hand, and Arthur fell silent as if he'd been compelled by magic rather than a simple motion.

"I know why you're here, Jonathan Eames," Saito said, looking straight into his eyes, "and I know what you are."

* * *

><p>Arthur stared in bald-faced awe at Saito, who leveled a deceptively placid smile at Eames. Eames shifted in his chair, his muscles bunched as if he were ready to spring.<p>

Why so tense, gentlemen? You must know I don't intend to kill you. If I did, Tadashi would have snapped your necks before you were even aware of his presence."

Arthur didn't doubt Saito or Tadashi's abilities to kill them, not for a second. "Then why did you let us in?" he ventured.

Saito stood and strolled from his desk to the window behind it, the exquisite kimono rustling softly as he moved. He gazed out at the city. "Because," he said with his back to them, "I believe we can come to a... mutually beneficial agreement. An arrangement, if you will. I will remove the Stop," he said, and Arthur watched as Eames' fingers unconsciously went to the center of his chest. "But in return, you must do something for me."

Arthur's brow furrowed in confusion. "What could we possibly do for a man of your status, Mr. Saito? What do we have to offer you?"

"Mm," Saito hummed. "That is a matter which may be somewhat difficult to explain. You see," he said, turning back to them again with his dark eyes smiling, "what I need from you falls outside the current bounds of legality."

"Current?" Eames repeated.

Saito motioned out the window to the panoramic view of the City beyond. A shadow drew a broken line across the smaller buildings—a shadow that ran parallel to the one cast by Proclus itself. "I'm sure you know that my only competitor for control of this City, Maurice Fischer, is an old man in poor health. His son will soon inherit control of the corporation, and as a result, the Los Angleles city-state itself."

Arthur's stomach began to twist even as he considered what Saito might be after. No one knew much about Maurice Fischer directly, beyond what he allowed the people to know. What knowledge they did have seemed to fall in line with how the previous generations had ruled. He was greedy, but not necessarily cruel—a largely disinterested despot. Robert Fischer, his son, was even more of a mystery.

Once again, Saito seemed to sense their questions before they formed. "You want to know why I am so interested in Robert Fischer," he said. "It's simple, Mr. Rydell. You've never met him. If you had, then perhaps you would know what he is capable of." Saito's eyes flicked briefly to Eames and then back.

"What has he done that's so terrible?" Arthur asked. He failed to see what this had to do with him or Eames, and the idea that they could even catch a glimpse of the son of the governor seemed absurd. "What are we supposed to do with this 'Fischer Jr.', kill him?" he laughed.

Arthur sensed, rather than saw Eames go stock still in the chair next to him. Eames had been visibly, frighteningly nervous the whole time, but this was something else. This was out and out fear. Arthur felt his mouth dry up. He had no idea what it was that had made Eames so afraid, but it couldn't bode well.

Saito let out a snort of a laugh, and then his lips pressed into a thin approximation of a smile.. "Kill him? Mr. Rydell, let's not be hasty. What I want is simply for you to eliminate him as a contender for Governor. The City needs Robert Fischer to step down."

Eames eyes, wide and panicked, searched Saito for some sign that he was joking. "We can't- You know that I... I can't- What do you want me to do?"

And Saito smiled again, his eyes dark and inscrutable. "When the time comes, you will know. And you will do as I have asked."

Arthur could tell that Eames wanted to reply, wanted to ask more, just as he did, but neither man had words for their shock as Saito left the window and stepped toward them. They rose from their chairs, and perhaps without conscious thought, Eames' hand found Arthur's. His palm was sweaty and his grip tight and twitchy with nerves. The wizard stopped mere inches from Eames, and with his advantage in height, looked down at him.

"Are you ready?" Saito asked.

Eames croaked a weak, quiet, "Yes."

"Jonathan Eames," Saito said in his silken voice. "What has been done, now be undone. What has bound you, now be rent asunder." Then he placed his hand to the center of Eames' chest, closed his eyes, and with a few whispered words of incantation, the room was engulfed in white light.

* * *

><p>It was agony—soul rending, spine twisting, mortal agony. Eames could hardly see through eyes narrowed against the light and blurred by tears as the ink of the Stop began to leach from his skin and into the tips of Saito's outstretched fingers. He could feel the spell being pulled apart as if it were happening to him; strands gave way like bones snapping, like tendons stretched to the breaking point and then beyond. He sensed its last-ditch attempt to hang onto him, and the last few seconds were excruciating. But finally, like fingers being pried away, the spell let him go.<p>

Eames' body went boneless and Arthur caught him, but it all seemed vague. It was as if it were happening to someone else. He thought those were Arthur's fingers carding through his hair, Arthur's lips whispering in his ear that it was okay, that he was alright and the Stop was gone, but he could focus on nothing other than the absence of the immense weight that had been lifted from his chest. His magic was back. It rushed through him, strengthening him, revitalizing him, and the beauty of it made him cry. He felt no shame for it.

Finally a hand closed around Eames', pulling him to his feet. When he'd recovered enough for the world to make sense, he opened his eyes to Saito smiling at him. This time it was genuine, formed of wonder and fascination and satisfaction all mingled. With his eyes crinkled at the corners in happiness, he looked almost kind.

"Welcome back, Mr. Eames," he said. "Now, please. Show us what you can do."

Eames released Saito's hand and stepped back, away from Arthur as well, who watched Eames with a similar smile. If Saito wanted him to demonstrate, then demonstrate he would—as he likely would have with or without request. Joyous, he flexed his magic. He reached out and called to not only his own, but to all the magic in the room. Every strand of the enchantments that ran through the walls, the spells cast on the talismans, and the wards, it all sang in answer. He heard the gasping intake of breath from both Arthur and Saito as they felt the pull as well.

"Exceptional," Saito said, his eyes widened fractionally, but Eames had only just begun. When he called to them, he could see the two men's Talents. They glowed like bright, burning blossoms in their chests and subtly bent the space around them. Arthur's signature was warm, familiar, but Saito's was truly interesting.

Eames stepped forward and picked up a delicately cast golden paperweight in the shape of a sparrow from Saito's desk. "Hold out your hand," he said, and Saito accepted the object with little hesitance. "Your Talent is animation, isn't it?"

"I can build things and then give them motion, yes," Saito replied. "I can give them autonomy."

Eames ran a finger down the little totem, and the shining surface rippled in its wake. The carvings grew deeper and more detailed, the proportions more lifelike. When they settled, the bird was no longer stylized, but a lifelike representation. Eames closed the other man's hand around the bird. "Go on."

Saito shook his head in confusion. "The bird... It doesn't have the necessary parts to permit motion or make it function correctly. I couldn't possibly animate it."

"Then give it _life_," Eames said softly. Saito closed his eyes, and Eames could feel the magic stirring within the other man. He whispered to it, helping it grow and guiding it to obey him. Saito gasped, opening his eyes and his hand—and the little golden sparrow hopped to its feet. It began to chirp, looking up at them with a cocked head and shiny, beady eyes.

"I think," Saito breathed, "that I have never seen something so extraordinary as you have shown yourself to be. I've made a good decision today."

Eames looked at Saito, so enamored with his powers, and at Arthur, who stared in open wonderment. "And have _I_ made a good decision?" he asked with quiet solemnity. He held out his finger and the little sparrow climbed on. When he lifted it to his face and blew gently, the sparrow shook off its coating of gold dust. It offered him one last chirp and without warning flew toward the window. It hit the glass pane with a smack and fell, stunned, before hopping up and trying again. Its wings beat frantically as over and over it was denied freedom.

Saito stared Eames in the eye for a moment, hard and appraising, before letting out a sigh. With one muttered incantation the massive windowpane dissolved to air and the distraught bird took off into the sky. Eames could see the moment the source of his tension dawned on Arthur, and suddenly the atmosphere was as thick and strained as it had been when they'd arrived.

"Go, Mr. Rydell, Mr. Eames," Saito said, turning away from them. The window glass reappeared. "I've done as you wanted. Now enjoy your moment of peace before you are required to carry out your part of the bargain."

If Eames had ever heard a dismissal, this was one. Arthur reached for his hand again without comment, and they retreated from Saito's office together in silence.

Tadashi greeted them outside the door. His mood was dependent on his creator's, it seemed, as the automaton watched them with dark interest and thinly veiled exasperation. "Are you satisfied, gentlemen?" he asked as he guided them back to the elevator.

"So far," Eames said with a noncommittal jerk of his head. "Domo arigato." He gave a little bow, and with that, he had exhausted his knowledge of Japanese.

"Thank your master for us, too," Arthur added. "He's... he's given us a fighting chance."

"Just don't waste it," Tadashi smirked. "Shall we take the lift?"

"No." Arthur startled and turned to Eames, looking for some explanation, but Eames merely squeezed Arthur's hand and grinned. "You're looking at my transportation."

Arthur caught on and beamed back at him, and this time when the universe closed around them, it was welcoming and warm.

* * *

><p>Ariadne pounced on the two of them the moment they reappeared in the apartment. "Oh my gosh, Eames! You Warped and didn't puke this time! Wait," she said, glancing at the center of Eames' chest, at his unbuttoned shirt and the place where the Stop had been. "Holy <em>shit<em>, you guys, it worked?"

"Woah, slow down," Arthur chided, and he peeled his sister off a still-reeling Eames.

Mal, who had been waiting for them as well, laughed in delight—but from a distance. "I knew you could do it, Arthur! Oh, thank the gods, we're saved." Arthur, unable to resist, held open his arms, and Mal moved between them to squeeze him in a fond embrace.

"This was only the first step," he reminded them, "but at least it was successful."

"Somewhat," Eames acknowledged, his voice unsteady. Arthur turned to question him, but as Eames sagged onto the couch, it occurred to Arthur how utterly _exhausted _the man looked. Relieved, maybe, and a bit of the color Arthur hadn't realized he'd been missing had come back to him, but his hands shook and he had bags under his eyes.

"Ariadne, Mal," Arthur said quietly, making a snap decision. "I know we're all eager to start planning our counterattack against Nash, but with your permission I'd like to wait a day."

"What for?" Ariadne asked, her head tilted in questioning. Eames, for his part, shot Arthur a look of intense gratitude. Arthur knew he'd made the right call.

"We need to regroup," he explained. "Plan it out that little bit further. And maybe do a little relaxing in the calm before the real shit storm."

"As usual, a good idea, Arthur," Mal smiled. "I'll let Dom know. He's getting stir-crazy watching the children at home, so perhaps I'll give him a reprieve tomorrow." She took Ariadne's hand. "Come, _petite_, let us leave these two to their... devices."

Eames mustered a sharp look at her, but Mal, insufferable as ever, only responded by leaning in and planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Come on, you harpies," Arthur laughed as he prepared to Warp them home. "Let's go."

Arthur dropped Ariadne at her dorm, and she gave him a wink and a kiss on the cheek. He didn't think it too strange in and of itself, but when he and Mal had Warped on to Dom's and her apartment, Mal took him by the hand.

"Wait," she said, her lips curled in a knowing smile.

Arthur felt he was missing something here. "What is it?"

"Have a drink with me? Just a quick one?"

Arthur's brow furrowed, but he couldn't see why not. He gave a small shrug; whatever it was, Mal wouldn't keep it from him for long.

His patience paid off, though by the time she started talking, Arthur realized that the drinks, plural, were to loosen him up and make him more pliable. He wanted to be annoyed with her, but once she'd spoken her piece, he found himself grateful—if she'd asked him stone cold sober, he might have imploded from the embarrassment.

"Are you and Eames... together?"

It was entirely without preamble, and even slightly intoxicated, Arthur snorted with surprise. "What?"

"You know," Mal grinned, with an entirely inappropriate hand gesture that had the tips of Arthur's ears burning.

"It's not—_no_," he said, at a pitch verging on screechy. "Where would you have gotten that idea?"

"I do apologize." Mal looked at him through a sip of her Beaujolais, and he got the sense that she was at least fifty percent not sorry. "I don't mean to be a pain; it's just... I don't know. You seem to light up around him in a way that I'm none too used to seeing."

"I do _not_–" he started, and cut himself off. Denial was a knee-jerk reaction, and he knew Mal wouldn't be so easily fooled. So instead he took her challenge. He thought about it. "I... maybe," he was forced to concede, blinking. It was amazing how many things he could miss about himself if someone didn't point them out to him. And this... this seemed so _big_.

"It isn't my place to pry or make presumptions or push you into anything, Arthur—gods know you won't do anything you don't want to do. It's simply good to see you happy." She placed her hand atop Arthur's and laced their fingers together. "I hope everything works out beautifully for you."

Arthur smiled. "Me too."

When Arthur returned just after sundown, Eames was pacing like a caged tiger. He didn't seem to register Arthur's arrival, his hands opening and closing as if he was searching for something that wasn't there. His hair was sweat-matted to his forehead, and the sheen to his skin made him look absolutely sickly in the gaslight. Even his magic responded to his agitated state of mind, and curtains and book pages fluttered in his wake.

"Shit, Eames," Arthur hissed, snagging the other man by the arm. It took a moment for his gray eyes to focus on Arthur's face, and when they did, he blinked in confusion.

"What?"

"What the hell are you doing still awake? You look like you could drop."

Eames let out a frustrated noise and tore away. "You don't understand, Arthur," he sighed. "I need time to think about all this."

Eames was right—Arthur sure as hell didn't understand. He followed Eames on his circuit around the room, his eyes pleading. "Eames, this extra day tomorrow is for you to relax, not work yourself to death. You have your magic back—so what are you so worried about?"

Eames stopped him this time, his hands tight around Arthur's upper arms. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he let out a wounded noise and pulled Arthur in to slot their mouths together. Arthur's eyes widened as he startled, but Eames seemed so desperate in the way his shaking fingers threaded through Arthur's hair that he gave in. He melted into the kiss, and Eames backed them into the wall. A thigh hitched between Arthur's legs kept him pinned to the wainscoting as Eames' tongue fought for entrance into his mouth. It was searing, intense, shaky with need, but eventually Arthur had to breathe. He planted his hands on Eames' broad shoulders and pushed.

"Eames!" he gasped. "Not that that wasn't incredible, but what the hell?" As if to underscore his point, the latticed window shutter next to them slammed against the frame, caught in the maelstrom of Eames' power.

Eames' eyes widened, and abruptly the disturbance stopped. He backed all the way away to the other side of the room. "A-Arthur, _gods_, I–" he stammered. "I lost control. I'm so—bloody hell, I'm _so_sorry." He brought a hand to his forehead and hid his face as he rubbed his temples. "I shouldn't have."

Arthur crossed the room in three long strides and gently pulled Eames' hand away from his face. "I'm not angry," he said. "Just please, tell me what's wrong."

Eames let out a long, shaky sigh and allowed Arthur to pull him into his arms. "It's this Fischer thing Saito asked for," he said into Arthur's shoulder. "I've no idea what to do."

Arthur's hand stroked the sweaty surface of Eames' back as he pondered it as well. It was true that he hadn't given Saito's request much thought—after they'd left his presence, the overwhelming relief he'd felt at having Eames' powers back had trumped his concern over the nigh-impossible task. "Let's look at it this way," he tried. "We have to take this one step at a time. And Fischer isn't the first step; he's the last."

"We've still got to deal with him at some point." Eames' voice rumbled through both their chests, low and quiet.

"Says who?"

Eames pulled back to look at him with his brow wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Arthur shrugged. "Who says we have to comply with what Saito wants from us? Now that you've got your powers back, there's no way he can challenge you. I saw the look in his eye when you showed him what you could do." Watching the CEO of a global corporation gawk at his not-quite-lover had been truly satisfying—and the best part was, Arthur knew it was only a fraction of Eames' power. But Eames was smiling at Arthur with rueful fondness now, and Arthur's own smile dropped.

"I'm not invincible, you know," he said. "The Stop itself was proof of that. I fought back against Nash, but I still succumbed to him in the end."

Arthur closed his eyes and butted his head against Eames' chest. "Of course you're right, though I'd wager the element of surprise had a lot to do with it. But still, can we think about it one step at a time?"

Eames remained silent for a moment, his fingers idly stroking the short strands of hair at the back of Arthur's neck. He pressed his nose to the crown of Arthur's head like he could breathe him in. "Alright," he said. "I'll try and focus on the present."

And in a moment of clarity, Arthur realized how he could help. "I... know of one way that's pretty effective at keeping your mind off things."

Eames sucked in a breath, his fingers stilling on Arthur's skin. "Do you?" he smiled.

Yes, yes he did.

* * *

><p>Eames couldn't deny that watching Arthur retire to his room every night while he slept on the couch had been frustrating, so when Arthur hauled Eames back into the bedroom with him, a large part of him danced with glee. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed unexpectedly, and with one sharp push from Arthur, he toppled. Arthur climbed atop him to straddle him and Eames' hands went up of their own volition to grip Arthur by the hips. The lighter man was half-hard already, grinding against him with his thighs gripping Eames' waist. His pupils were enormous, his eyes deep black pits in the dim light afforded to them by the open door.<p>

"You know," he said, panting next to Eames' ear, "After having seen both Mal's mother _and_ you, I have to wonder whether Sources are just naturally fucking gorgeous."

The force of Eames' laughter shook them both. "Definitely not."

"Mm, just you then," Arthur hummed. He took Eames' earlobe in his teeth, pulling an involuntary gasp out of him. Eames had been half-hard before, but now he was positively aching in the restricting confines of his slacks. Arthur heard his groan and, bless him, got the hint. He scooted back a couple of inches and his fingers fumbled with the fly of Eames' slacks before tugging it open. It was just as well that after the other night, Eames had decided not to ruin another pair of Arthur's underwear. He simply hadn't worn any today—a revelation that Arthur discovered mere seconds later with a bark of a laugh.

"Easy access," Eames shrugged. He was about to lie and say something to the effect that it was premeditated for this very purpose, but then Arthur's hand was curling around him and the rest of it was lost in a stuttered moan. "F-fuck."

"Maybe later," Arthur smiled, catlike.

It was only polite to reciprocate, so Eames urged Arthur to shift himself so that he could get at Arthur as well. His shirt went first, baring his pale, creamy skin, and then his slacks. Every inch of him, every new part of him merited exploration, whether by Eames' hands or his mouth, but eventually Arthur made an impatient noise and squeezed Eames' cock in warning. "Alright, alright." When Eames exposed it to the air, Arthur's own cock was hot and heavy and devastatingly beautiful, just like the rest of him. It almost seemed like a shame to cover something that pretty with his hand, so Eames made the quick decision to put his mouth on it instead. "Roll over," Eames directed him, licking his lips, and Arthur looked at him for a moment in unabashed lust when he caught on.

Once he was on his back, Eames lifted Arthur's lithe form and bodily heaved him further up the bed. He crawled into the space between Arthur's spread legs, and after receiving a nod of invitation, lowered his mouth to the head of Arthur's cock. The noise he made when Eames' mouth engulfed him was so pleased, so _sinful_ that Eames almost came right then. He had a bit more pride than that, though, so he gripped the base of his cock with his free hand to prevent himself from going off too soon. The pleasure-pain ratcheted the intensity of his motions as he worked the flat of his tongue down Arthur's shaft and sucked at the place just under the head. Arthur's eyes rolled back, his hands twisted into the sheets, and it wasn't the hastily stuttered syllables that fell from his mouth that warned Eames he was about to come, but the way his legs had begun to twitch against Eames' shoulders. He let out one last cry, something that sounded suspiciously like 'Eames', and then his body convulsed with the force of his orgasm.

Eames took it all. He swallowed away the bitter taste, then climbed up Arthur's body and began desperately jerking himself. Arthur smiled up at him, entirely blissed-out and well fucked, and it took a scant few strokes before Eames was coming in long, pearly streaks across the other man's pale stomach.

When he was cognizant again he flopped bonelessly onto the bed in fear that if he stayed upright much longer, he would pass out. His muscles still twitched as Arthur turned onto his side and curled around him, heedless of the come spread all over him.

"If I wasn't going to need a shower before, I was now," Eames gulped. "Bloody hell."

Arthur chuckled into Eames' shoulder. "There's only one shower, but I don't mind sharing. ...Later."

There was a moment of silence while their breathing returned to normal and their hearts resumed a slower cadence. Eames could feel Arthur's eyelashes fluttering against his skin as he blinked in the darkness. "Do you think that we should maybe talk about this?" he said.

Everything in Eames screamed '_no, no, no_' at him, but he swallowed down the reaction and said with forced casualness, "Why question it? Why not just enjoy it and see where it goes?"

Arthur's disappointment was practically tangible as he mulled it over, but eventually he shrugged in concession. "You're probably right. One step at a time."

Eames wondered whether there was a word for the mingled guilt and relief he felt. Guilt, because he knew he was avoiding the problem. Relief, because if he were forced to examine his feelings, he was afraid of what he might find.

It got chilly with their bodies cooling rapidly, and, logically, the next step was for Arthur to pull the comforter out from under them and settle in next to Eames. It was the last way Eames thought he'd end his day, wrapped around the man who had saved his life—and had asked for nothing in return but his affection—but all in all, it was far from unpleasant. It had mostly worked, Arthur's attempt to distract him from the dark thoughts that had clouded his mood before. And even if he did dream of assassins or pale-eyed men tonight, Arthur was there to save him from drowning.

Would that he were always there.

* * *

><p>Perhaps it was ill-advised, but Arthur couldn't say no to Eames' suggestion for a picnic. The park in Central was surrounded by huge, protective trees, and full of witnesses that made it nigh on impossible for anyone to attack. With a new temporary Source chosen for Los Angeles Temple, and the investigation surrounding the previous Source's murder drawing to an inconclusive close, the City atmosphere was almost back to normal. Arthur munched happily on one of the BLT sandwiches Eames had made as a few robed children joined their fellows walking down the street that ran by.<p>

"I don't envy the poor man who has to deal with four days' backlog of unawakened kids," he said contemplatively.

Eames raised his eyebrows around a huge bite of his own sandwich. "I don't envy the life of a temple Source at all," he said once he'd gulped it down. Arthur kicked himself, watching for some sign that he'd upset Eames, but the other man just continued eating as if nothing had happened.

Arthur breathed an inward sigh of relief. He was trying to keep the conversation light, since this was supposed to be a day of relaxation, but it was difficult when the situation around them was steeped in Source-related issues. They had until sunup tomorrow, Ariadne's arbitrarily-decided deadline, to enjoy themselves. But though Arthur had given up talking about serious things, it seemed Eames wasn't finished.

"It's interesting to me, hearing people talk about their experiences being awakened." He took a long swig of water from his canteen and focused his gaze on a ladybug crawling across a blade of sunlit grass. "When they describe it, it's always about the grandeur of the temple, or the way the Source looked at them before it happened. In every culture the world over, being awakened is regarded as terrifying, but it's exciting, too."

"What about you?" Arthur asked carefully. Eames' eyes flicked upward to meet his for a moment, his irises glittering in the sun like broken glass.

"Subtract the 'exciting' bit, and you've got it," he said slowly. "As soon as I walked into the Source's chamber, I felt it. The place was grand, and beautiful... but it was a cage."

"A cage?" Arthur had never thought of the temple in that way, even after talking to Mal about her mother. Now, strangely, he felt ashamed. He was certain that hardly anybody who wasn't a Source addressed it in their day-to-day life, the idea that no matter how much a Source was _needed_, they were indentured servants at best. It was the way they'd all been raised—to take magic and temples and Sources for granted.

"It isn't this way just so Sources can be used like magical dairy cows," Eames said, as if reading his thoughts, "though that's most of it. The ratio of Sources to everyone else is low enough that there's generally only one per city, so yes, demand is high. But... part of the reason I was so terrified of the idea of being a Source is the sheer number of things you miss out on." He held his hand out to the blade of grass and the ladybug changed course to march up his finger on spindly black legs. "Your education is significantly curtailed. All their energies are spent teaching you to awaken other people's magic and cast blessings on them—and nothing else."

"Why is that?"

"Because otherwise," Eames smiled, baring his teeth a little, "we're dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Arthur repeated. His heart skipped a beat in his chest. "But you said it yourself. You're not invincible."

"Definitely not," Eames agreed. "Nonetheless, the things I can do... I can channel your Talent with a touch and use it for myself. I can amplify it. I can put a curse on you so powerful that your grandchildren will feel it. I can steal your luck. I can smite you where you sit. Or I can call up a storm, or bring the rocks to life, or make the trees sing. And those are merely the things I can do _without_ incantations."

"I see your point," Arthur was forced to concede. He fell silent and thoughtful as they both watched the ladybug climb the spire of Eames' finger. When it got to the tip, it did a little dance in place, and then its colorful shell opened to reveal its wings. It launched itself with a faint buzzing sound and flew away, disappearing into the glare of the sun.

"I enjoy my freedom," Eames mused, long after the ladybug was gone. "I enjoy it because I know how fragile it is. When something like this deal with Saito threatens it..." He trailed off and brought his fingers to brush over his heart, where the Stop had been. "I hope you understand."

"I'll try. For you." And Arthur knew it wasn't enough, but it was all he could offer. He had to wonder, though. "Have you ever awakened the magic in someone? On your own, during your travels?"

"Yes," Eames responded immediately. The corner of his mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile. "It was an amazing feeling; I'll grant you that."

"I bet."

"Come on," Eames said, his face suddenly lighting up in the biggest, sunniest grin Arthur had ever seen from him. He grabbed a bemused Arthur by the wrist and pulled him off the grass to his feet. Before Arthur had had a chance to fully regain his balance, Eames took off at a run for a distant oak tree, laughing behind him. "Try and catch me!"

Arthur stood dumbfounded for a second before instinct kicked in and he took chase. "Just you fucking wait until I do!"

Even with the advantage of what was essentially teleportation, Eames was a slippery target. He dodged and weaved between bewildered children, changed tack at the last second and taunted Arthur mercilessly. When Arthur finally caught him, they both flopped backward onto the grass and onto each other, exhausted. The late afternoon sun was beginning its descent, and it lit up the clouds until they glowed a bright, brilliant yellow.

"The calm before the shit storm," Eames whispered to the sky.

* * *

><p>Night had brought with it a sense of quiet relaxation, despite the imminent deadline at sunrise. Dinner was broiled scallops and asparagus with a sweet white Gewürztraminer sangria. Eames had been impressed—when Arthur had somebody to cook for, he wasn't half bad. Now the two men sat on the couch together, Arthur curled around a dogeared book of common charms and curses in the crook of Eames' shoulder.<p>

Arthur had explained to him that growing up a Talent had led him to be unfortunately lazy—his ability to Warp around town ensured that he had an easy job as a delivery boy, and he hadn't much need for any other kind of magic. It made little sense to Eames that Arthur would disobey his self-imposed call for a break, but Arthur argued that it gave him some time to study before their offensive tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the group would go back to Eames' apartment.

They couldn't be sure that Nash had returned there after his failed attempt to kill them, but it was likely he'd show up at some point. They were loose ends, after all. If Nash's employer meant to take out every Source the world over, it made sense to eradicate the one that had escaped him first. The difference was, this time they'd be ready.

"Okay, okay," Arthur mumbled under his breath to himself. "I think I've got this." Eames looked on in keen interest. The first few words of the incantation were shaky and uncertain in their pronunciation, but Arthur finished with a more confident "_Ohr_," and with a snap of his fingers, a globe of light appeared in his hand. It made the lamps look dim by comparison, highlighting the sharp angle of Arthur's jaw and the curves of his cheekbones in blue-white.

"Very good," Eames grinned. When Arthur closed his hand around the little glowing orb, it vanished. He was still unsatisfied, though, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Once more." This time, he fumbled the incantation three words into it. When he snapped his fingers, instead of a light, he got a flashing spark that singed the skin. "Fuck!" he cursed in frustration. He stuck the injured digits into his mouth and glared at Eames, as if he'd had anything to do with it.

"Here," Eames said. He plucked Arthur's fingers from his mouth and directed him to hold his half-drunk glass of sangria.

"What–" Arthur started, but when his skin made contact with the cool condensation on the outside of the glass, he cut himself off with a pleased sigh. "Okay, yes, that feels nice."

"Maybe you ought to take a break," Eames suggested. "This is supposed to be a time for relaxation."

Arthur shifted in Eames' arms to pin him with a doleful look. "You don't understand. These things come so easily to you. Aside from Warping, I have to work at my magic—even to defend myself."

Eames didn't have a rebuttal for that. He fell silent, pondering, as Arthur buried his nose in his book once again. Without a word, with hardly a conscious thought, Eames snapped his fingers and a brilliant ball of light appeared, just like Arthur's. Arthur dropped the book into his lap and blinked up at it.

"You see?" he said. "It's effortless for you. Why is that?" Eames extinguished the light by closing his hand and took in Arthur's expression. The thin line of his mouth suggested irritation, but at the same time his eyes were bright, curious. "What makes using magic different for a Source and a Talent? Or for a Source and a non-Talent?"

Eames bit his lip and struggled for a moment to come up with a fitting analogy. "Okay, think about this. Our magic is internal, right? When we use magic, it comes from within us."

"Right. That's why we call it an awakening. Even little kids who can't perform magic can feel someone else's."

"Exactly. But it's not really _ours_, is it? We're born with it, and it's a part of us, but it's like it's borrowed. That's why everyone who isn't a Source has to use incantations. Because to get the magic to do what you want, you have to direct it with words."

"And it picked a pretty fucking difficult language to understand," Arthur muttered.

Eames let out a chuckle. "Difficulty is subjective. When you're trained from youth to speak it, it's no more difficult than speaking your native language."

"Whatever," Arthur muttered. "Why is it different for Sources? You can do things without speaking."

"I've no idea _why_," Eames mused. "The best I can compare it to is, say, moving a muscle. The brain sends a signal, what it wants the muscle to do, and then the muscle does it. Simple as that. But even a Source has to learn to use that muscle. Without use, it atrophies. Constant use creates something similar to muscle memory."

"Interesting. Why use incantations at all, then?"

"Some spells are just too complex for a single thought—if they have many steps, for example. The recited syntax of the incantation helps organize the thought into something your magic is able to work with. Like the wards I use. Even I need incantations for them."

Arthur finally gave up on the book, letting it fall closed. He turned to Eames again, his eyes searching in wonderment. "God, the things you must know. The things you must have _seen_."

Eames felt an uncomfortable pang in his chest. Arthur was looking at him with admiration, with naivete, with _trust_. "I've seen some things, alright," he said quietly. Unexpected, Arthur's fingers traced down his arm to entwine themselves with his. His thumb stroked the back of Eames' hand in slow, soothing motions. Eames' heart was cracking, thawing, aching, and the pain was exquisite. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the words that began to fall from his mouth of their own volition.

"I told myself that I'd never get close to anyone," he said. Arthur looked up, sensing that this was a serious subject. "I decided it right out of the gate, when I was twelve and already on the run. I wouldn't trust anyone, only use them for what I needed. It was difficult. I had friends, and there were families I lived with, but I could never open myself fully to them. Every time I tried, I'd inevitably get hurt." The fingers laced with his tightened in a squeeze. "Then one day, that all changed. I met somebody, and it was as if I couldn't help myself. My perceptions were challenged—I fell in love."

Arthur's attention drew focused, his dark eyes sharp. Eames couldn't bear the scrutiny, so he closed his own and began to speak again before the words could leave him. "I thought everything was going well. It... it was incredible. And then, he broke my heart. What it felt like, when I'd suspended every one of the principles I'd lived by successfully for years, only to have it thrown in my bloody face... To be betrayed, to have my heart stamped on... I never wanted to have feelings for anyone again."

Eames fell silent, unable to speak anymore. He could feel Arthur watching him, waiting for the rest to come, but Eames wasn't sure it would. He wasn't sure he could admit to what had been growing inside him the past few days. But then Arthur gradually began to pull his fingers from Eames' own, and Eames' eyes snapped open. He tightened his grip around Arthur's hand and Arthur looked at him in confusion.

"I never wanted to have feelings for anyone again," Eames repeated, "but then I met you. And you were so kind, and supportive, and affectionate that I... I didn't stand a chance. Maybe it's crazy. Hell, it's absolutely _mental_. But, just like that, I think I've fallen in love again."

He had no way to predict what Arthur's reaction would be, whether he'd be amused, or horrified. Eames had simply given his heart a voice. But then Arthur sucked in a little breath of air, and before Eames could blink, had cradled his jaw in slender hands and pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn't desperate, like before, but insistent and earnest and wet. He shifted his lighter body into Eames' lap, straddling him, his hands stroking down Eames' neck and tangling in his hair and simply touching every inch of him they could.

Eames let himself be swept away. Yes, he'd vowed never to entrust his heart to someone else again, but what choice did he have in the face of love like this?

There was nothing in the world like it. Eames wasn't just over Arthur, or in Arthur, though he was these things. Arthur wasn't just penetrated, he was _permeated_. Eames' magic flowed through his hands where he kept Arthur's pinned to the bed, warm and soft and tingly. It created a feedback loop of sensation through their bodies so strong that Eames hung his head, nearly overwhelmed as he pushed inside. He shuddered as he bottomed out, and his pleasure carried over into Arthur's body. Arthur's spine went taut like a bowstring of its own accord as it rocketed through his limbs.

"Fucking _powers_," he gasped. "Are you always this amazing?" Eames' cheeks and the bridge of his nose went a darker pink, and with a small smile he released one of Arthur's hands to trail a finger down his pale chest and across his hip. Eames' touch was like ice, but in its wake Arthur felt heat flare like a skittering spark. "Show-off."

"Maybe," Eames grinned. He pulled out till only the head of his cock remained within Arthur, and the loss was nearly unbearable. Then with one long thrust he was balls deep again and Arthur saw stars.

It was intense, but it was too slow. "Come–come on," he bit out, using his ankles crossed behind Eames' back to urge him into motion. Eames picked up the pace, but only a little bit, a gentle slide in and out. "Fucker." Arthur tightened his muscles around Eames the best he could and Eames let out a helpless little gasp, his mouth falling open. His hips snapped forward of his own accord and sent a frisson of pleasure through Arthur's body. Finally Eames got the hint and gritted his teeth, bearing down hard and fast again and again until his balls slapped against Arthur's ass.

Arthur wanted to tell him 'that's more like it', but his mouth couldn't find words. So he said it with his hands instead, unlacing his fingers from Eames' and using them to stroke down his shoulders, the taut muscles of his arms holding him up as he fucked into him, the broad, dark lines of his tattoos. Eames stared straight at him the whole time, his gray eyes glittering and intense. Maybe it was a mistake to do this face to face, to reveal himself like this—but Arthur saw reflected within Eames everything he himself believed. That this was _right_. "Closer," Arthur choked out. "I need to be–" And he cut himself off, but Eames understood perfectly, couldn't _not_, the way they were connected like this. He leaned in and buried his nose into the crook of Arthur's neck and shoulder, whispering words that Arthur couldn't understand but felt like caresses against his skin. He trailed open-mouth kisses along Arthur's jawline to his mouth, until his plush lips were moving against Arthur's to the same rhythm that his hips followed. One of his hands, now freed, stroked over Arthur's body and made him tremble at the touch. It was gentle, soft. It was like he'd found some wonderful treasure in Arthur and not the other way around. Then it moved lower, to encircle Arthur's untouched cock.

"Gods," Arthur gasped into Eames' mouth. He was instantly ten shades closer to orgasm, and if the way Eames' rhythm had gone erratic was any indicator, he wasn't the only one. He could feel the response from Eames' body, the twinges in his limbs, the gathering pressure behind his balls. They were both so close, so very close. Arthur wanted to come, _needed _to come with Eames inside him, all around him, his magic surging through his body like wildfire and skimming along his nerves. He was pulled tense, tighter than tight, he was going to explode, he—

Stars. The universe. When he closed his eyes, he saw the way Eames did. The threads of magic, the warp and the weft that held it all together. He saw the way Eames burned like a bright flame, the way his power bent the fabric of the world around him in swirls and eddies. He saw himself, saw the place where they were joined, saw the deeper meaning and the connection there. He saw the truth. Just briefly, and for a moment, and it was more beautiful and terrible than anything. And then the brilliant light faded away, and Arthur opened his eyes as Eames poured himself within him.

The power of it was almost too much to handle as Eames collapsed against his chest, both of them coming down from the high of orgasm. Almost. Arthur felt his mind go blissful and blank, the enormity of what had just happened settling into vague echoes of sensation.

"Shit," Eames said mildly into Arthur's shoulder. "You must have really enjoyed that."

Arthur, slightly annoyed at Eames' presumptuousness—though he was absolutely right—nudged at him. "How can you be so sure?"

"Arthur, love. We're floating." Eames chuckled as Arthur looked around and discovered that they were indeed hovering a good six inches off the mattress.

"I'll be damned. That's never happened before." He began to laugh as well, a breathless, surprised, satisfied laugh as Eames wrapped a strong arm around him to hold him close.

"I think I'm too tired to be damned," Eames murmured into Arthur's hair.

"Let's be damned in the morning then." Arthur relaxed his magic and they sank slowly back into the mattress. Eames immediately reached for the comforter and pulled it over them as he had the night before. It should have taken more than two occasions for something like this to become routine, but Arthur felt warm and safe and comfortable and at home. He stroked his fingers across the short hair at the back of Eames' neck and whispered, "You can trust me."

"I know," Eames said muzzily in answer.

"And I trust you too."

Eames gave no reply. His chest rose and fell in the steady, even rhythm of sleep. Arthur laughed at him silently, but it was just as well. They'd need all the rest they could get for tomorrow. It wouldn't be easy—Arthur had no illusions about that. But with Eames by his side, he knew they could conquer the world.


	5. Produce wholesome fruit

Lank, greasy hair. A rictus grin. A woman's scream. Those pale eyes hovering in the background, narrowed in triumph. _He knows_. All around Eames was blackness, and when he reached his arms out, there was nothing there. No way for him to interact. No way for him to save himself. No way for him to save _her_.

Eames screamed.

The void around him shattered into a million pieces, and he felt himself falling, falling. He could see no visible ground, no point of reference, just the sensation of endless falling. No one to help him. No one to help her. He was alone. She was alone.

And then, silence. Then, death. He felt his body break, his bones turn to dust, his organs liquefy. He opened his mouth to speak and no sound came out. The dead told no tales. The dead had no use for truth, no use for love. There was nothing but pain and sorrow and anger and–

_Guilt_.

* * *

><p>There was no knock this time. Instead, the door burst open to the screech of shattering wood and the sound of wailing. Eames jolted awake a second before Arthur, carefully cultured paranoid reflexes kicking in, but Arthur was right behind him.<p>

"Arthur!" came a voice from the main room, and his heart stopped—Ariadne. It explained how the intruder had managed to overcome the wards, but Arthur didn't relax so much as a hair. His sister sounded terrified, panicked. She was in danger. A second voice still moaned in agony.

Arthur cast around for his clothes while Eames sat in the bed watching him with apprehension in his wide gray eyes. "Shit, shit, shit," Arthur cursed under his breath like a mantra until he'd found his slacks. He pulled them on as quickly as he ever had, then left Eames and strode out the bedroom onto a scene of utter chaos. "What the fuck–?"

Ariadne supported a limping and battered Yusuf, the source of the moaning. He held a hand to his head, where blood streamed from between his fingers and from several slices in his scorched clothes. Ariadne looked relatively unscathed, but tears streaked down her face like twin rivers. "Help me!" she cried. Arthur rushed over and with his assistance they managed to heft the injured man onto the couch. When Yusuf was in place, Ariadne surged into Arthur's arms and buried her face into his chest. Arthur reeled in shock. He had no idea what was going on, but he had to be the strong one here if no one else could. He stroked Ariadne's back and petted her hair as he tried to piece together what was happening. "Fuck, fuck, what are we going to... gods, _no_," Ariadne sobbed.

"Ari, please tell me what happened," Arthur said as calmly as he could.

It was Yusuf who answered. "Nash happened," he groaned. "Fucker, he... he blew up my goddamned shop. W-while I was in it. Fire, shrapnel... I barely got out."

"Hell," Arthur breathed. "It's a miracle you're still alive."

"Miracle my bloody arse!" Yusuf's voice was strained and taut with pain and emotion. "My life's work. All of it gone, just _gone_. And me... I'm in shreds."

Arthur gently pushed Ariadne away by the shoulders and moved to the kitchenette to gather supplies; a bowl of water, washcloths, the old sheet Eames had been sleeping with. Ariadne was still looking at him with streaming eyes when he returned. Before he could question her as to why she was so upset, or how she'd found Yusuf, Eames finally emerged in a pair of sweatpants. His mouth fell open, gray eyes widening.

"Gods, here," he said, striding over and taking the supplies from Arthur. "Let me help now that I can actually be of some use."

"You don't know how... how glad I am to see you recovered, Mr. Eames," Yusuf bit out through gritted teeth. "Dangerous as you are."

"I know, I know. This is all my fault. It's because of me." Eames hung his head as he knelt by Yusuf's side. He closed his eyes, whether for concentration or out of shame, Arthur couldn't be sure. He laid his hands gently over the wound at Yusuf's temple and began to chant in the High Language, a muttered drone. The skin began to mend itself before their eyes. It gradually knit back together, until the wound looked like he'd received it days ago, rather than minutes or hours.

Arthur fell into his chair and Ariadne sank into his lap, her eyes locked on Eames' hands. They moved over the rest of Yusuf's body, healing his wounds until he was no longer in danger, just bruised and exhausted. Yusuf's eyelashes fluttered as he dropped into a troubled sleep. He would recover given time.

When he was done, Eames sat back, looking drained. Ariadne reached out carefully and laid a hand on the sweaty surface of Eames' skin. Eames, oblivious, didn't react. Arthur thought she might be trying to touch one of his tattoos, but then her fingers brushed against a mark that hadn't been there yesterday. A mark Arthur had left last night, with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. Had it only been last night? It seemed like a dream now, fuzzy and soft compared to this morning's sharp reality.

"Congratu-fucking-lations," Ariadne hissed, bitter, and it was only after a moment that Arthur realized she was speaking to him. Arthur had never heard such vitriol from his sister directed toward him, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

"Ari, don't do this," he pleaded. "Please tell me what's going on. What happened?"

Ariadne's jaw worked as she stared at Eames, who still sat back with his eyes closed. "I figured you were safe here with him to protect you, so last night when... when the alarms went off announcing my dorm building's security had been breached..." She let out an angry sob. "I figured it wasn't just me. That Nash was going after everybody who has a connection with Eames, all at once. Otherwise, why me? I found Yusuf crawling out of the wreckage of his shop. He wanted to go to the hospital but I convinced him it wasn't safe."

Arthur's stomach writhed with dread. "And what about Dom and Mal and the kids?"

Ariadne began to break down, her small frame heaving against his. Finally she turned to him, her expression knotted in anguish. "That's where I-I went first. But I was too late."

* * *

><p>Eames was watching now, unable to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping on the conversation happening just a couple of feet away. He witnessed the exact moment the air was punched from Arthur's lungs.<p>

"_What_?" Arthur demanded, a frisson of panic in his voice that Eames had never heard until now. Not even when things were at their worst. "What do you mean, too late? The kids–"

"–are fine," Ariadne cut in. "You remember, Dom was... was going to take them out yesterday. They were gone when it happened. When Mal–"

_No._

"When she what?" Arthur gripped Ariadne by the shoulders, his knuckles gone white with tension.

_No._

"She's dead, Arthur."

Arthur let out an inhuman, animal noise, a wounded keen that sent chills down Eames' spine and turned his blood to ice in his veins. This was not supposed to happen. This was not what they had planned for yesterday. This was Eames' fault, for dragging Arthur in, for involving his friends and family, for–

"No, no, Ariadne, you've got to be wrong," Arthur was pleading. "Come on, just tell me you made a mistake, because there's no way that she– that Mal–"

"Listen, Arthur," Ariadne choked. She looked him in the eyes, eyes that brimmed over with disbelief and anguish like her own. "Last night, I went to their building to make sure they were okay. It was surrounded by police. They took me in for questioning, which is why I didn't get to Yusuf until about sunup. They told me everything that had happened. She... she jumped. Off the balcony."

"Bullshit," Arthur interrupted. "She would never! Not with the kids..."

"There were no signs of struggle, but the police were still considering it a murder scene," she continued. "They let me go, though... because by then they had their number one suspect in custody."

"Who? Nash?"

"_Dom_."

"What?"

"Come on, Arthur, think about it," Ariadne pleaded. "His Talent—Charming, the ability to plant ideas in people's heads, make them do things... You know better than anybody how it works. Even though he was out all day with the kids, and people can vouch for him, he doesn't have an alibi. He _can't_ have one."

"Because... oh gods, because he could have done it weeks ago. He could have planted the idea for her to—_fuck_! No, no, no, no, fucking no."

"They're saying his motive was jealousy. That because Mal is—was the daughter of a Source, she had a higher social standing and more fame and money to her name than he did, even though he's a Talent and she's not. They're positing that he, ah, he couldn't cope. They have him locked away, and the kids are with Professor Miles. They'll be safe there. They won't hear what people are saying on the streets. That their father's a _murderer_." Ariadne's voice had gone steely despite the tears still tracking down her cheeks. "You know he didn't do it."

Arthur let out a shuddering breath through clenched teeth. "Of course I fucking know he didn't. But I know who _is _responsible, and when I find him, I swear to the source of all things that I will kill him myself."

Eames began to back off slowly and silently. Neither Arthur nor Ariadne noticed him, tangled as they were in their anger and grief. It was just as well—Eames couldn't handle anybody looking at him right now. He couldn't handle the damning truth written across their faces. The truth that this was Eames' fault. It was down to him.

And he'd fucking known it, hadn't he? He'd known this was too good to be true, that he'd fuck it up somehow, just like he always did. Only this time, he'd dragged innocent people down with him. Ariadne and Yusuf and Dom and poor, poor Mal, who, whatever she was, didn't deserve to die. Her children, who would grow up motherless. And Arthur. Beautiful Arthur who had saved him, who had _loved_ him. And how had Eames repaid him?

_Et tu, Brute_?

The pale-eyed man was laughing at him, standing in the light at last. His hand sat on the shoulder of the man in the long black duster, the man with lank, greasy hair and a rictus grin. They laughed at him together. They reveled with joy in his folly. His failure.

_No_.

Eames knew what he had to do.

* * *

><p>Arthur's shock and anguish had galvanized into something hard, something with sharp glass edges that cut at his insides. It was a good thing—the pain kept him from curling in on himself. It kept him moving, kept him thinking, and he'd need his wits about him if he wanted to kill Andrew Nash. His body worked mechanically as he dressed himself in his best suit—the better to be buried in if his plan of attack didn't pan out the way he intended. He'd left a bag of supplies by the door last night, items he'd intended to bring with them when they confronted Nash according to their original plan. Arthur ignored it. He wouldn't need it. He was going to do this alone. One of them, either he or Nash, wasn't going to be walking out of this alive. And if he'd had to bet on someone to survive, Arthur would have bet on himself.<p>

Eames sat on the corner of the bed, his eyes downcast as Arthur adjusted the knot in his tie. Arthur didn't blame Eames for what had happened, and even if he did, Eames likely didn't need help blaming himself. Maybe Arthur would argue with him, reason that this was just as much Arthur's fault for asking Mal for help, for getting her involved in the first place, but not now. Not when the wound was so new and so raw. They could talk when Andrew Nash was dead.

Ariadne was waiting for him when he stepped back into the main room. She stepped forward into the circle of his arms, her eyes dry now but red around the rims. "Promise me you'll be careful," she said. She knew better than to waste her energy trying to convince Arthur not to go.

"I will," he said, and Arthur had expected his voice to sound brittle, but it came out steady and flat. He gave Ariadne one last kiss on the top of her head, then stepped back and prepared to Warp.

* * *

><p>Dom and Mal's building was still surrounded by policemen and their hulking automatons. Arthur ducked into the shadows of the alleyway he'd Warped to. He'd be recognized if he was spotted, and his friendship with Mal and Dom was public enough knowledge that they'd nab him for questioning. Arthur didn't have time for questions—he wanted answers.<p>

A glance at the balcony of the 30th floor apartment wasn't enough to determine whether the police were still investigating, but Arthur didn't see anyone moving around. He decided to risk it and made the short jump up to the balcony. He pressed himself to the wall just outside the sliding door, out of the line of sight of anyone who might be inside the apartment. No sound came from within when he put his ear to the stone, so after a few moments' hesitation for safety, he reached out and began to inch the glass door open.

The apartment was deserted. Arthur called a wary, "Hello?" just to be sure, but the lamps were unlit and nothing but silence answered him. He stepped inside and every one of the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

The place looked exactly the same as the last time he'd seen it. Nothing physical had changed, though he could feel the lingering police presence over the more familiar one left by Dom and Mal and the kids. It was still just as warm and as beautiful as it had been before all this had happened, almost as if in defiance. The great brick fireplace still told of cozy winter nights, the photographs on the mantel of happier days and smiles. The architecture was beautiful, of course, bold deco lines and rich dark woods. Dom's work. Arthur took it all in piece by piece. It was true; there were no signs of a struggle. There were no scuffs on the floor to indicate a fight, no marks on the wall, nothing useful. It was empty, silent, devoid of even Mal's ghost to haunt it. Arthur let out a sigh that sounded deafening amidst the quiet and tilted his head back in defeat—he needed something solid to prove without a doubt that Nash had done this. To prove, when the fight was over, that Dom was innocent.

Arthur opened his eyes to the gleam of silver. He wondered how high Dom's bail would be set, considering the unrest the City had already suffered in the last week. Arthur's mother had left behind what she could, but much of it had gone to paying off his father's debts posthumously. What money remained went to Ariadne's education and paid Arthur's rent. Dom and Mal had more between them. Maybe–

Arthur realized he'd been staring at the slender metal body of a flechette, embedded in the ceiling, for a full thirty seconds without parsing the significance of it. His eyes focused on it now, narrowed and sharp. He'd discovered it entirely by coincidence, and it wasn't unreasonable to think that even a team of detectives might have missed it. The detectives had nothing at stake here. It wasn't their best friends who'd been murdered, or who stood in danger of losing their children and their lives.

Arthur grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and pulled it across the floor to stand under the flechette. When he climbed atop it, his fingers barely brushed one of the fins. He stretched as far as he could, and with one small lunge, he plucked the object from the plaster. His knuckles went taut and white as he gripped the little metal object. He wondered what Nash was doing right now; perhaps he expected a counterattack. Arthur would go to the one place he thought he could count on Nash to show up. He'd stick to the plan.

He steeled himself, and, gritting his teeth, pictured Eames' apartment in his mind.

* * *

><p>Eames had no belongings at Arthur's apartment to pack, but he couldn't leave just yet. Ariadne watched him with a hard, unfamiliar scrutiny from where she sat by Yusuf's side. Eames didn't blame her—she was right not to trust him. He could tell she wanted to, though, and as he made his way around the apartment, chanting the strongest protective wards he knew how, a furrow of concern began to appear between her brows.<p>

"What are you doing?" she asked his back.

Eames finished the last phrase of the incantation and swiped his hands together. "Just making sure everything is intact. We can't know for sure that Nash hasn't targeted this place next."

Ariadne slid off the chair and though she still looked at him warily, she approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Eames, you're strong enough and on-guard enough that nobody could present much of a threat to you. If Nash came knocking on the door, you could tear him to pieces. So what are you _really_ doing?"

Eames stared down at her hand in confusion. He was unsure of why she was touching him, or how she'd managed to set aside the hurt to talk to him civilly, much less like she cared. Eames felt a painful wrench in his gut and he kept his eyes averted. He couldn't look her in the eye and lie to her or Arthur anymore. He couldn't hide the truth.

"I've got to make sure that you and Arthur will be safe when I'm gone."

"Gone?" she asked, her voice rising with a hint of barely-there alarm. Eames didn't want her worried, and it stung a bit to hear that she was, but a clean break would be best.

"I'm leaving."

Ariadne's grip tightened around his arm, her nails digging into the skin and feet planting themselves widely apart as if she had any hope of physically holding him there. "What do you mean, leaving? You can't leave us alone; you have to protect us."

Eames pulled his arm away with minimal effort. Ariadne stumbled a bit, and he cursed himself for having to do this, for causing the situation in the first place. "You don't understand," he said. "I am protecting you. I'm protecting you from _me_."

Ariadne's eyes were huge and round, searching Eames for some sign that he was joking. "What do you mean, protecting us from you? Arthur left you here to guard this place, and if you don't, he'll have gone alone for nothing. Eames, you're literally our only hope."

"That's not true," he said as he filled the battered canteen Arthur had loaned him. He didn't think Arthur would mind if Eames took it with him now, not in the larger scheme of things. "You and Arthur are both highly intelligent and strong people. You'll do just fine without me."

Tears began to brim in Ariadne's eyes, threatening to spill over, and her mouth quivered. "And what about Mal, huh?" Her voice was small and it cracked on every word. "Mal was strong. But she..."

Ariadne's face crumpled in a sob, and Eames was still going to leave—this changed nothing—but he wasn't heartless, either. She rushed forward and he caught her against his chest, resting his chin on the crown of her head and stroking over her back in soothing motions.

"God, I'm so scared," Ariadne sobbed. "I feel like such a coward, but I can't help it. Arthur's out there, and he–" Her fingers tightened where they were curled into his shirt. "I just don't know what to do."

Eames felt sick to his stomach as the bile rose in his throat, guilt that he could keep the truth from her even now. "You'll be alright, I promise. I wouldn't leave if I wasn't certain that you'd manage on your own."

Ariadne backed away, her eyes downcast with teardrops clinging to the lashes. "If you're going to do this," she said, and she sounded wounded and raw, "at least wait until Arthur gets back. Tell him to his face. You owe him that."

_Arthur_. Gods, what was Eames going to do? How was he supposed to explain his reasoning, and why he'd done what he'd done? He had no excuse. No pretty lies to hide behind when the truth came out. And when it did, Arthur would see Eames for what he truly was. He would hate him, as well he should. As Eames deserved. What other choice did he have?

"Alright."

Unhappy but somewhat satisfied, at least, Ariadne gave a jerky nod and moved back to sit in the chair beside Yusuf's prone form.

Eames sank into the closest kitchen chair and began to steel himself to tell the truth.

* * *

><p>Arthur materialized to the dusky shafts of morning sunlight streaming through the ruins of the exterior wall and the smell of mustiness. Already the elements had begun to reclaim the wreck of Eames' apartment; heat from the sun and rain had warped the floorboards and the pigeon droppings now amounted to a pungent carpet. A stubborn yellow dandelion grew from between cracked and grimy tiles, the only source of color in defiance against all the other shades of decay. Once again, the building appeared deserted. The only sounds were the natural creaks and groans of the frame as it expanded.<p>

He closed his eyes and let his other senses take over. He knew that Nash was quick and very skilled, and so Arthur let himself go to a calm place, somewhere he could set aside emotions and focus on what he had to do. He couldn't think about Mal, or Dom, or Eames. There was only the here and now. He heard a creak from the area directly in front of him—and when he opened his eyes, Arthur wasn't alone.

"I knew you would come back here," said Nash, low and gravelly. His tangled dark hair hung matted over his eyes, so greasy that the breeze coming through the gap in the wall did little to stir it. He wore the duster and heavy boots from before, and his hands, encased in fingerless gloves, held the substantial heft of his rail gun at level with Arthur's chest. "I knew you'd come for me after you found out about your precious little Mal." His face split into a leer. "I admit I nearly fucked things up with the Los Angeles Source, but you have to agree that my plan to take care of the former Ms. Miles was pretty ingenious. You should have heard her on the way down. She screamed for her kids. Delicious."

Nash's pink tongue darted out to swipe across his lower lip, and, well, there went Arthur's zen. The blood in his veins sublimated straight from ice into steam as he boiled with anger. Without stopping to consider the best route of attack, or which incantations he'd need, he disappeared and reappeared just inches from Nash's face. The assassin's eyes widened. Without enough room or time to counter, or even react, he simply staggered at the force of Arthur's blow—an elbow to the chest. Arthur pressed his advantage. He flickered out of existence and reappeared just behind Nash's back and took out the man's knees with a well-placed kick. Nash crumpled to the ground, the rail gun clanging against the tiles. A drop kick to the spine crushed the air from his lungs and he fell on his belly with a startled 'oof'. He immediately began to scrabble for the gun, and Arthur reached for his legs to try and pull him back, but with one final lunge Nash's fingers closed around the stock. The heavy metal frame screeched along the tile, but finally he managed to bring the gun to bear. He'd had no time to charge it, though, so instead he swung it at Arthur's head.

Arthur tried to duck, but he wasn't quite fast enough. The barrel hit him so hard across the temple that his vision flickered to black for a moment. Arthur stumbled to his knees, hands going reflexively to the wound and to cover his face as Nash climbed back on his feet.

"You're a quick one," he laughed. "But that means nothing in the larger scheme of things."

"Fuck you!" Arthur cursed. He pushed himself into a sitting position, willing his head to stop throbbing. When he spat at the ground, it came out pink from where he'd cut the inside of his cheek on his molars.

Nash was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur climbed to his feet, his arms raised defensively and his eyes darting from doorway to wall to the crumbled countertop where he'd staged his own attack the last time they'd done this little dance. His thoughts whirled in confusion. Where could Nash have gone? Once or twice he thought he heard the shift of a floorboard or the sound of breathing, but when he turned to look, there was no one there.

"Boo."

Arthur never saw the blow coming. One minute he was standing up, then the next he heard a deafening crack—metal against his skull—and he was back on the ground, his vision swimming white with pain and his stomach churning as Nash planted a boot squarely in the center of his spine.

"So easily broken," Nash was musing. Arthur tried to struggle, but the movement only served to make him nauseous. "Humans are like paper bags of guts. Smack them around too hard, and they burst." Nash made a hawking sound in the back of his throat and a fat glob of saliva and mucus landed on the tiles beside Arthur's head. "Your sister's next, you know."

"No," Arthur groaned. The nausea was beginning to recede just a bit. "You can't... can't hurt her. Innocent."

"Can't I? I would have killed her last night in her dorm, but she escaped. But that's alright," Nash said, kneeling down and grinding his knee into the space between Arthur's shoulder blades. "I do love a game of cat and mouse. And I know where your little mousy hole is, Mr. Arthur. You think I haven't been watching you, but I have."

"B-_Bullshit_," Arthur coughed.

"Day in the park, playing tag?" said Nash in a sing-song. "Visit to a Mr. Saito? Sound familiar?"

_Fuck_. Arthur tried to think back, tried to remember where Nash could have been hiding, how he could have tracked them. He came up with nothing. It was as if the assassin were a ghost. How was Arthur supposed to fight a ghost?

"Yes, when you're dead, it'll be Ariadne. Then our mutual acquaintance and your guard dog, Mr. Eames. Then I'll finish the job I started with Yusuf, then Taran McDougal, that twat of a temporary Source they installed. Then... fuck knows, maybe the Source of Phoenix. Or Seattle, maybe."

Arthur braced his palms against the floor and tried to push himself up. Nash simply leaned more of his weight into keeping Arthur pinned, and he'd been weakened enough already that pinned he stayed. He heard a click, and the ominous hum of the rail gun's solenoids that heightened in pitch to a whine as they charged in preparation to fire. All the hair on his body stood on end—if he didn't keep Nash talking, he'd have an impressive hole through his torso in about three-point-five seconds.

"Why?"

Nash's weight on his back shifted ever so slightly as the assassin was taken by surprise. Arthur didn't dare move, didn't twitch, didn't do anything other than breathe. The gamble he'd taken here could end one of two ways. Either Nash would lose patience and shoot him, or—

The assassin let out a chuckle. "It's _fun_. Hunting you Talents is sport enough, but Sources? The thrill is–it's unbelievable. And I'm being paid for it! Who doesn't want to love his job?"

And in that moment, suspended in time and stretched like taffy until it seemed endless, Arthur closed his eyes and disappeared.

* * *

><p>Eames sat with his back to where Ariadne and Yusuf spoke to each other in low murmurs. Yusuf had awoken to a pounding headache, but he was physically stable and recovering. The fallout had been more emotional. Yusuf was a pragmatic man, but the shock of losing his home and his livelihood all at once had rendered him irrationally frightened and angry. "Forget the cathedral. I'll ask Professor Miles if I can use rebuilding your shop as my final project," Ariadne had offered without hesitation. But then it had occurred to her that since Mal was Miles's daughter, there might not be a final.<p>

Now the two of them were conversing about something a bit more private. Something they didn't want him to hear. They were talking about Eames, probably; how this was all his fault. He felt a bit like he was awaiting a sentence, and wondered if this was what Dom felt like. Only, Dom wasn't guilty. He didn't have to deal with the reality that it was he who had opened the door and let the pale-eyed wolf inside.

Eames closed his eyes and remembered. If he imagined it, he could almost feel the desert sun as it beat down upon his skin and left him red and raw. He remembered the injustice of it, the hurt he'd felt. He remembered further, to when Cesar had sold him out, to the anger he felt then. He remembered the drugs, the crack of the whip against his skin, the beatings. He'd had traveling companions once, a couple named Erek and Mara who had been on the run with him. He'd fought for them, when the raiders had come in the night to take them away. They'd been taken anyway.

Pain and loss and suffering. Eames' life hadn't been an easy one, though through it all, he still hesitated to say it hadn't been a good one. But he knew the sting of betrayal well enough that he could guess at what Arthur would feel after Eames had spoken his piece. Nonetheless, Eames knew this was right. He would do right by Arthur in any way that he could. There was no way he could ever redeem himself for the things he'd done, but he could prevent them from happening again. The pale-eyed wolf was in the door, but Eames could fight him off and protect Arthur and his loved ones, even if Arthur was never the wiser.

Maybe he was irredeemable, but there was still one thing he could do.

* * *

><p>Arthur caught the tail end of Nash's indignant squawk as he rematerialized—but Nash wasn't there. Arthur looked around in confusion. The phlegm Nash had spat was still there, but the man and the rail gun were simply gone. Arthur let out a curse under his breath. It had only taken him half a second to Warp. He didn't understand how–<p>

A tremendous crash came from the direction of the main stairwell outside the apartment door, followed by a muttered, "Fuck!" Arthur took off out the door and rounded the corner, hands slapping against the banister as he peered over. Nash was picking himself up off the landing three floors down, only two flights away from freedom. Arthur practically threw himself down the stairs. He was fast, but Nash was faster. Overuse of his Talent was wearing Arthur out. He could feel it like a dull ache in his bones and behind his eyes. When Nash burst through the door of the complex, though, Arthur had no choice. He pictured the alleyway at the entrance to the building and stepped into the void.

He reappeared and Nash bounced off his chest. Nash let out a startled noise and shoved, pushing Arthur away from him. Arthur was thrown off balance for a second at most, but it gave Nash enough of a head start to tear around the corner and past a steam car covered in graffiti—_Elsa_—on his way to the gaping maw of a tunnel opening in the wall. Arthur pushed his exhausted body fast as he could as he tore after the assassin, but Nash cleared the entrance and ducked into the darkness of the tunnel. Arthur didn't hesitate. He couldn't let Nash get away.

Pounding footsteps and a series of thuds echoed in the dank space ahead of him. He couldn't stop to let his eyes adjust, so he simply barreled on ahead, cursing when his feet caught on the uneven floor or the rough walls tore at the pads of his fingers. He was getting closer, closer, the footsteps growing louder, and then—a fork. Arthur wouldn't have known it was there but for the sudden breeze coming from his left. He reached an arm out and felt nothing but air.

"Shit," he cursed. He listened hard, but he could hear nothing other than the drip of water from cracks in the limestone brick into stagnant and slimy puddles. He had no way of telling which way Nash had gone. If Nash got to the crowded Market District and managed to escape into the crowd before Arthur caught up with him, he'd never find him. There was no way... or was there?

He whispered the words of the incantation as silently as he could and snapped his fingers. The tail of Nash's duster disappeared around the corner of the tunnel branch the moment the brilliant blue light flared. Arthur took off again. He rounded the corner just in time to catch Nash's muttered curse right in the face. He reeled back, clawing at the sting in his eyes with the hand not holding the burning ball of light. Nash's cackling voice receded down the tunnel.

Arthur took a deep breath. He chanted one of the incantations he'd memorized last night and the pain disappeared. Arthur held the light out in front of him and followed, the shadows jumping wildly with his every movement. The ominous hum of the rail gun rose over the sound of their fleet footsteps. At a second junction, Nash whirled around and aimed the fearsome weapon. He fired–

The bolt screamed from the barrel of the gun with a crack of lightning that illuminated everything in a blinding, instantaneous flash. Nash. The grin on his face as he realized he'd won. Arthur's hand raised over his eyes. "_Magen_," said Arthur at the same moment.

–and the bolt ricocheted off the invisible shield to lodge itself in the wall with a deafening clang. Nash's eyes widened and he growled in disgust. He dropped the spent rail gun and bolted off to the right, where a faint light shone from up ahead.

Arthur felt his heart surge with adrenaline as he hopped over the abandoned weapon and gave chase. He'd _done it_, just as Eames had believed he could. He was fearless. Unstoppable. Nash sent curse after curse at him and Arthur countered every one of them, hitting Nash with a few of his own. Nash stumbled, got back up, the whites of his eyes showing like a frightened horse. Arthur was closing in on him as they approached the tunnel exit, a rough circle through which poured bright daylight and the smells of the marketplace. Almost there. He burst after the assassin into the harsh glare of the sun.

When his eyes adjusted, Nash was gone again.

Arthur dodged barrels of apples and a stand selling strawberries, his dark eyes tracking any and everything that might give him a clue as to where Nash had disappeared to.

"If you're looking for something in particular, like, say, a mouthwatering and delicious pineapple, I may be able to help," said one man. He stepped out from under the canopy of his stand, an eyebrow raised in questioning. A heavy turban covered long, wavy white hair and shaded eyes of a curious red-violet. "Or, maybe a drink of water and some... shade?"

Arthur stared at the man and the man stared back. Something made the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck prickle, and he couldn't figure out why. It was as if the man was trying to tell him something with his eyes. Arthur glanced around, trying to figure out what it was. His gaze skimmed over the stands, the walls of the wide alleyway these obscure little shops were tucked into, the cobblestones at their feet.

Something clicked.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the warm brown stones. The stretched and distorted shape of the canopy tumbled across the alley, into which melted the shadow of the shopkeeper. Arthur's shadow fell just next to it, and a third...

A third shadow stood right beside him. Arthur followed it back to its source, and his eyes skimmed away, as if they wouldn't focus. _Nash's Talent, _Arthur realized_._He was a Wraith. Arthur gasped as the shadow raised an arm, an arm holding the outline of a knife. The arm came down. Arthur caught it.

The illusion broken, Nash stood in front of Arthur—quite solid, his teeth bared in a snarl. His knuckles were white around the handle of the wicked-looking shiv, his arm trembling as he fought Arthur to bring it closer to his heart. Nash could try as he might, but Arthur had no intentions of getting stabbed. He made a neat sidestep and let go of Nash's arm, and the force he'd strained against Arthur with carried him off balance into a stumble. Arthur drop kicked him in the neck. Nash let out a cry and was forced to let go of the knife so that he could catch himself on the stones. Arthur lunged, snagging the ivory handle. He gripped a handful of a stunned Nash's hair and pressed the blade to his exposed throat. Nash's eyes went wide and he swallowed, a red line appearing across the delicate skin.

"The hunter has become the hunted," Arthur grinned. He could feel the eyes of the shopkeepers on him, waiting to see if he would deliver the killing strike. And yes, he would have, but it was his decision to savor the moment that cost him. Nash took advantage of the pause and wrenched his head back, heedless of Arthur's grip on his hair. Arthur's hand came away with a fistful of the greasy strands, but no Nash. The assassin twisted away. Arthur dove at him and managed to catch him in the side, the sharpened blade he'd stolen sinking an inch into the flesh. Nash howled and scrabbled at the stones. Once he'd found purchase he took off at a run, slipping into one of the alleyways.

"Luck to you, sir," said the albino shopkeeper with a dip of his turban and a slight smile.

Arthur sucked in a deep breath and gave chase. Nash wasn't far ahead, banging off the walls with a hand pressed to his injured side. Their footsteps echoed like thunder as they ran, and Arthur felt the adrenaline build up in his system again—he was close now. He could sense it. Nash was a skilled assassin, and Arthur had no formal training, but he had the power of emotion on his side. He would stop at nothing, but Nash had to stop sooner or later. The man was tiring out, and without a weapon, Arthur had a distinct advantage. Several times Nash attempted to disappear into the scenery or melt into the shadows, but Arthur didn't allow his alertness to waver. The sun followed them down the alleyway, and now that Arthur knew what to look for, he could spot Nash every time.

Nash barreled past a stack of crates just a few dozen feet ahead of Arthur. He stopped and turned, and with one heave, brought the lot of them down in an avalanche across the alleyway. Arthur didn't falter—if Nash wanted to play Talents, he would oblige. He could feel with his magic the strings of the universe around him, the laws that gave gravity their sway. He plucked them gently, as if they were the strings of a guitar, and then jumped. Running up the wall was as easy as running along the ground, and he cleared the crates easily.

Nash paused for a moment, gaping, as Arthur ran at him sideways, his feet pounding on the bricks of the wall and his body perfectly parallel to the ground. Arthur reached out to grab him, but at that moment Nash stumbled into another, narrower gap between buildings. Arthur cursed and let gravity shift again until he was back on the ground. Nash had gained a few feet, but Arthur still outpaced him. He was only twenty feet away, fifteen, ten...

Finally Nash burst through a short tunnel onto a courtyard surrounded by the walls of a rotting tenement. The space was wide, though it was protected by the buildings surrounding it, and at the center a contraption of glass and gears and silk lay waiting and gleaming in the sun. An ornithopter, a flying machine, a work of art too beautiful for someone as violent and crude as Nash. Nash scrambled inside the open cockpit and slammed the glass dome down mere seconds before Arthur smacked into it.

"_Fuck_!" Arthur cursed. He flipped the shiv in his hand and brought it slamming down into the thick glass, but it bounced off. Nash grinned at him from his place of safety and pushed the heavy helmic regulator to start the pneumatic motor. The craft's wings, broad and flexible, beat a slow downstroke. Arthur ducked to avoid getting clocked by the wing's leading edge as it came up again. The engine whined and the wings began to beat faster, raising the dust around Arthur's feet in a whirlwind. He fell back, coughing and choking as it coated the inside of his mouth and throat and stung his eyes.

By the time the dust finally settled and Arthur could see and breathe again, the craft was a quickly-diminishing speck in the sky above him.

_No._

It couldn't be this easy for Nash to get away. Arthur wouldn't let it happen. But what could he do? His heart thundered in his chest as he considered something he had never done before.

_"You must only Warp to someplace you have already been, Arthur. Otherwise you could end up dead, or worse—alive and trapped. Only places you've been."_

Arthur remembered the words of the mentor who had taught him to use his Talent and cast them aside. He pictured the inside of the ornithopter's cockpit as he'd seen it before its takeoff. The controls, the seats, where Nash had sat... He was taking a great risk here, but was it worth it? He imagined Mal, smiling at him with her eyes, her depthless pools of blue, and imagined how she'd died. Snuffed out like a light. Yes, it was worth it.

Arthur opened his eyes to the gleam of the sun on the ornithopter's cockpit. It was far away, yes, and Nash was good. Arthur was better. He stepped backward and let the universe fold him into itself.

Cold. Heavy. The moment between his disappearance and rematerialization felt stretched and distorted and longer than it had ever been before. His heart pounded in terror. He'd miscalculated, he was going to die, he–

The world faded back in to the hiss and drone of the pneumatics, the scent of leather and grease, and Andrew Nash pissing his pants.

"Fuckfuckfuck," Nash was babbling, his eyes wide. His hands had come off the ornithopter's yoke to scrabble at the cockpit release, and the machine's bobbing flight had gone erratic. It rolled sharply and suddenly they were upside down, three thousand feet above the spires of Central. Arthur pulled himself up from the glass of the cockpit as the ground below them spiralled ever closer, reached for the quivering wreck of a man and grabbed him by the collar. The moment of truth.

"Let me show you something," he said, and he Warped them into open air fifty feet to their right. Nash began to scream as they plummeted, pawing and attempting to cling to Arthur in any way that he could, as if that would save him. The ornithopter, his only real chance, tumbled out of control and out of reach, and the ground still rushed at them at nine-point-eight meters per second squared—nine hundred feet away, eight hundred, seven hundred—Arthur could see the details on the buildings from here, could see the Cobbs' apartment, in fact.

He leaned in close to whisper in Nash's ear. The man smelled of sweat and fear and rot. His eyes streamed as the wind roared around them and made their hair whip like pennants.

Six hundred, five hundred.

Nash screamed and screamed, but Arthur knew he'd heard anyway. His cries grew less desperate and more horrified, resigned to the fact that he may as well be dead already.

Four hundred, three hundred.

Oh, Mal, _Mal_. Arthur imagined the terror she must have felt as she'd fallen, knowing she would never see Dom or her children again. Her blue eyes closed as tears streamed from the corners. Her little useless prayers in the instant just before her death.

Two hundred, one hundred.

"Now you know what freefall feels like."

Arthur shoved Nash off him with all the force he could muster and Warped away.

* * *

><p>When Arthur materialized to slump against the damaged door, Eames' heart leaped in a sense of twisted relief. Arthur had survived for Eames to tell him the truth, and at least he could be rid of the burden of his lies. But Eames was no fool—he knew exactly what it was that he was forfeiting, and so the truth wouldn't come easily.<p>

For the moment, Eames was simply glad the other man was alive.

"Oh, thank gods," Ariadne gasped, and she knocked the chair over with a thud in her haste to get to her brother. She tackled him without reserve, heedless of his grime-ruined suit. Arthur held onto her only loosely, his eyes closed as he simply breathed her in.

"Glad you're back, mate," Yusuf offered from his reclining position on the couch.

The question neither of them had braved hung heavy in the air, yet unspoken. Eames found he couldn't break his silence just yet. Arthur answered it for them regardless.

"It's over," he said in a low, dull mumble rendered thick by exhaustion. "I... I killed him. I killed a man today." Arthur didn't sound regretful or even mildly in shock, just resigned. He didn't say anything else, but then he didn't need to. Neither Eames nor Ariadne wanted to know, and if Yusuf did, he kept it to himself. Arthur's body language spoke enough about what had happened. His shoulders slumped and his fingers shook where they stroked through Ariadne's hair.

Eventually Ariadne pulled away, her eyes dry and hard when she turned to look at Eames. The rock in Eames' stomach grew a little heavier. '_I can't stop you leaving, but if you break his heart..._' she seemed to threaten with her silent stare. "I'm glad we've got that little bit of closure, then," she said aloud. Eames knew this was his cue.

"Arthur, I... I'm glad you're back," he finally said, and his voice sounded small under the roar of his own pulse in his ears. It was as if Arthur had only just remembered Eames was there—his head snapped up and his eyes gained back a little of their warmth.

"Jonathan," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was remembering how to smile. Eames' heart twisted in despair; Arthur's affection for him and his complete _trust_ only served to make things more painful. Arthur left Ariadne to approach him, but Eames stopped him with a palm in the center of his chest before he could get too close. Arthur looked down at the hand in tired confusion, unable to parse what was going on.

"I can't lie to you anymore."

He went still against Eames' hand. "What do you mean, lie to me?"

"Arthur, listen," Eames begged, and perhaps he heard the desperation in Eames' voice, for his eyes suddenly focused, sharp and dark. Eames desperately wanted to tear his gaze away, to hide from Arthur's righteous anger, but Ariadne had been right. He owed Arthur an honest answer. And maybe a week ago, Eames would have laughed at the idea that he owed anyone anything, but he wasn't laughing now. "I'm leaving."

"What?" The word was hardly a breath.

"I have to leave here, and it's not because I want to. I _have _to. I'm a danger to you."

"I don't understand," Arthur was saying, and of course, how could he? How could he understand, considering the truth that Eames had kept from him? "We knew this would be dangerous from the beginning. Even Mal. Eames, it isn't your fault that she's dead any more than it's mine. Yes, we did involve her, but she made a choice to help. It was Nash who killed her, and he's dead now, too."

"Yes," Eames said softly, "But his employer isn't."

"We still don't know who his employer_ is_," Ariadne cut in.

"I do."

The room went deadly silent. Arthur, Ariadne and even Yusuf stared at him in shock.

"You... _what_?"

Oh gods, oh gods, Eames could _see _that bit of warmth leave Arthur's eyes; he knew what was on the line here, and he had to give it up anyway. Had to push that much further, because Arthur deserved better than his lies.

"I know who it was, Arthur, and I'm sorry. Gods, I'm so fucking sorry. Nash's employer was Robert Fischer."

Eames' heart sank with dread as Arthur began to back away, the color draining from his face. "Fischer?" he said disbelievingly. "How... How do you know that? And how long have you known?"

Finally Eames could no longer stand to look Arthur in the eye. Here he was, telling the truth, and the shame only seemed to weigh heavier down upon him. "I only knew for certain after our meeting with Saito. But... I've had my suspicions since the moment I opened my eyes in the desert."

Arthur backed all the way to the door, where Ariadne stepped in and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You've known... all this time," he said quietly, but his next words began to rise in pitch and volume as the reality of it sank in. "That's why... oh god, _Saito_—that's why he looked at you like that. It's why he gave us that fucking impossible task, why you were so worried about it and—what the fuck, Eames? How could you keep this from us?"

And Eames could imagine it, the delicate lines of Robert's face twisting into a cruel smile, the way his beautiful pale blue eyes would narrow into something shadowed and cold as he took delight in Eames' misfortune. It was the way Eames had seen Robert look at other men many times before, but he'd never expected that malicious leer to be turned on him.

"I told you... a few days ago, and then last night, that I'd... I'd stayed in Los Angeles for so long because I'd had a lover once. Who betrayed me at the end." The words came only haltingly, every one wrung out of him. "Robert was that lover. And he betrayed me by setting Nash on me and leaving me powerless in the desert."

"Gods, what the fuck... What the fuck..." Arthur's eyes were round, his knuckles white as he gripped Ariadne's hand. Ariadne had gone ashen as well, and even Yusuf sported a homicidal cast to his glare. "Can you at least explain _why_?"

"I'll explain what I can," Eames offered, his voice cracking. "There are things that even I don't understand. I don't understand how Robert could have... But I can guess."

"Guess away, then, mate," said Yusuf, his voice dangerously low.

Eames let his head fall back and tried not to think back to happier days, when Robert had smiled at him and touched his skin with wonder in his eyes, before he'd gone mad. Or worse, of last night, when Arthur had touched him with the same reverence.

"Robert Fischer was born a Void," he began.

"What?" demanded Ariadne. She'd set aside her anger momentarily to level him with an inquisitive stare. "He can't use magic at all?"

"Yes," Eames nodded. "It happens often enough, you know. Among 'commoners', anyway. But for the Fischer heir, descended from a long line of Talents, to turn up not only Talentless but a Void? He, ah... He used to tell me that his father had considered replacing him when he was young. Having him killed and making it look like an accident, or simply stealing someone else's child." Eames didn't expect anyone to look sympathetic in the least, and sure enough, none of them were impressed. But Eames wasn't here to make excuses for anyone.

"When we first met—I was... gods, I was so _stupid_. I'd just come to the city and had heard about the Fischers, so I posed as some traveling dignitary, just to see what all the fuss was about. I looked at Robert and he looked at me, and... he wanted me, I suppose. We kept seeing each other. At some point he must have figured it out, that I'm a Source, though I tried to hide it from him. It seems so obvious in retrospect. He was always kind to me, though he could be cruel to others, until one day... he changed. He would say things, or beat me about. I could tell that something had happened, but I wasn't sure what. I couldn't understand how he could tell me he loved me and then do things like that. Then, the next thing I knew, I woke up in the desert with my powers bound by the Stop."

"So Fischer got jealous and homicidal and dropped you off to die," Arthur was saying, "and then I found you and you went and fucked up everything I ever loved because... What, because you still cared about this guy? _Knowing_ what he'd done?"

"It's not that simple," Eames pleaded. "I'd never felt that someone had truly loved or cared about me before, so I couldn't betray him–"

"But you could betray me," Arthur said, suddenly in his space again. "You could stand by and say nothing, putting every one of us in danger when only _you_ knew the consequences. One of my best friends is fucking _dead_ because of you, Eames, and the other is in jail." He turned away again to pace, tears glinting at the corners of his eyes. "And I let you _fuck _me!" he spat.

Eames closed his eyes and swallowed as every word hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd thought that nobody had more power to hurt him than he himself had, but Arthur had just proved him wrong. But Eames deserved it this time, deserved anything any of them decided to throw at him.

"I'm sorry."

"You know what? I am too." And the worst part wasn't the anger that ran through Arthur's voice, but the grief. The knowledge and the disappointment that Arthur was already mourning for what could have been. It really was well and truly over for them.

"Will you turn me in?"

Arthur looked at him for a long moment, and though he appeared as if he could break down at the slightest provocation, he remained resolute and strong. "No," he said at length. "I made a promise to you that I would help you and have the Stop removed. I've fulfilled that promise. Just go, Eames, and take all your bullshit with you. I have nothing left to say to you."

So Eames gathered the pieces of his broken heart and left.

* * *

><p>Arthur sat slumped in his righted chair, his pounding, whirling head in his hands. He could hardly comprehend everything that had happened in—shit, only the last twenty four hours. He wished now more than ever that he could simply rewind time to before things had gone crazy. Back to when Mal was alive, Dom was free, and life made sense. Back to before he'd met Eames, even. As much as he blamed Eames, Arthur couldn't deny that he'd had a hand in all of this. He felt sick and overwhelmed just thinking about how he'd blindly trusted the man. He'd let Eames into his life, his heart. How had things gotten so fucked up?<p>

"Was it wise to let him go?" said Yusuf, the first words any of them had spoken since the door had shut behind Eames some moments ago.

"Was it wise to make him?" said Ariadne.

Arthur glanced up at her, unsure whether he'd heard her correctly. "Ariadne, what he did was... it was a fucking betrayal, and you know that."

"He could go to Fischer and sell us out," Yusuf reminded her. "Bargain for his life using us as pawns."

Ariadne frowned. "You're right that Eames has done some terrible things. And I'm angry at him, too. I'm angry at him for you, Arthur. I'm just not convinced that's something he would do."

"How do you know that he won't, though? Nash may be dead, but there are plenty of assassins out there, and if Fischer knows where we are, it's only a matter of time before one of them figures out how to breach the wards and kill us all. Or he could turn on us, and do the job himself."

Ariadne sent Yusuf a wry smirk. "Eavesdropping spell," she said. "I slipped in the incantation when none of you were paying attention. When I say the word, we'll be able to hear what Eames hears. We'll know if he sells us out."

Arthur blinked at her. He knew the incantation well; it was one he'd used on Ariadne when she'd gone out with her friends as a teenager, much to her ire. How strange that it should come in handy again now. "Then... will you do me a favor and be the one to keep an ear out?" he asked her. "I just don't... I don't think I'm ready to deal with that right now."

Ariadne's eyes filled with concern, but it was tinged with pity—the one thing he didn't want. He didn't want to be 'poor Arthur', the idiot who'd let himself fall under Eames' thrall. The noise in his head intensified, and suddenly he felt he had to get out of here, do anything other than wallow in his own pity or Ariadne's. His exhausted body screamed out in protest as he pushed himself out of his chair, but Arthur ignored it.

"Where are you going?" Ariadne asked.

He didn't answer her, just went straight to the corner of his bedroom where he kept the large trunk his parents had left their savings in. He sifted through its contents with a grim eye, counting under his breath. It wasn't much—he hoped that between this and his own earnings he would have enough.

"Arthur, please tell me where you're going," Ariadne repeated as he strode back out into the main room. Arthur imagined he made a sorry picture; he was red-eyed, scabby, covered in dirt and flecks of blood. But his appearance was the least of his concerns.

"I'm going to bail out Dom."

* * *

><p>Dom's father was outside the soundproof solitary confinement cell in which his son was being held. He did a double take when Arthur stepped up beside him and said quietly, "Mr. Cobb."<p>

"Arthur," he gasped. In this light the man looked as though he was about eighty, rather than the sixty or sixty-five he was in reality. His brow had formed new lines seemingly overnight, and his eyes were red and tired and underscored by heavy bags. Only his hands appeared steady as he reached out to grip Arthur tightly by the shoulder.

"You look like you've been through hell and back," Arthur offered by way of a greeting.

"Speak for yourself," said Mr. Cobb with a faint smile. He released Arthur's shoulder and the smile dropped. "The world's gone to hell in a handbag, hasn't it?"

"It has."

They gazed for a while at the white, industrial door behind which Dom sat, alone with his grief. He couldn't know that his father was waiting just outside, or that Arthur was here. He was simply locked away with his ghosts. Mr. Cobb choked a little, as if he were holding back a sob. "You don't believe he did it, do you, Arthur?"

"I know he didn't." The older man heard something of the certainty of Arthur's voice and turned to him with questioning eyes. Arthur let out a sigh. "I can't explain much yet. I'm sorry. When all of this is over, Dom or I can tell you everything."

Mr. Cobb gave a slow, uneasy nod. "If we're ever able to get him out, anyway. My wife and I were hoping they'd let him out on his own recognizance—we're both convinced he never could have done it, and he's an outstanding citizen—but no such luck, of course. They've set the bail at five hundred thousand; they say they had no choice, considering the nature of his Talent. Too dangerous and potentially harmful to the judicial process."

"The 'process' whose strings are pulled by Maurice Fischer himself," Arthur observed darkly. Mr. Cobb shot him a glance, and Arthur remembered belatedly that the older man had no idea of the larger things afoot. Mr. Cobb, as a former policeman, had once pledged his loyalty to that very regime. "Sorry."

Mr. Cobb shrugged—it seemed his loyalty fell just shy of accepting his son's incarceration. "We were able to put up two hundred and thirty, and Dom was able to release some of his assets to us," he explained. "That still only puts us at four twenty-five, though, and we've got no other options."

Arthur sent the older man a small smile. "You do now."

* * *

><p>Mr. Cobb had argued with Arthur for a solid thirty minutes over whether Arthur ought to spend every penny he had bailing Dom out of jail, but when he finally had his son wrapped in an airtight hug, he dropped it without another word.<p>

Arthur waited against the wall beside the bored-looking guard. When a shell-shocked Dom and his father were finally finished embracing, Dom's eyes raised to lock with Arthur's. Arthur opened his mouth to speak—whether to greet him or beg for forgiveness, he wasn't sure. But then Dom looked away again, and Arthur felt guilt and regret sink in his stomach like a stone. Mr. Cobb sent Arthur an apologetic look. The three of them plus the guard made the silent trek to the exit.

"There is one condition to your release," the guard said as Dom signed paper after paper. "Because your Talent poses a threat to the neutrality of your case, you will be placed under house arrest. Your magic will not be curtailed within the confines of your house, but if you attempt to leave, the ward placed around the perimeter will act as a Stop and you will be unable to use magic of any kind."

Dom blinked blearily at him for a moment, but then it appeared to sink in and he gave a slow nod. "I understand," he said almost inaudibly.

"Additionally, your children will remain in the care of Mr. Stephen Miles during the period between your release today and your trial. For their safety."

Dom flinched horribly, and the corner of the guard's mouth twitched in amusement. Arthur dearly wished he could punch the man. "That's... only to be expected," Dom said after a moment, resigned. He scrawled a lackluster signature on one last paper and the guard pressed a heavy stamp onto an inkpad and then across the paper.

"You're free to go... for the moment."


	6. Which opens thy mind

It seemed appropriate that it should rain today, though in typical form, the bright Los Angeles sun shone stubbornly through it all. The light shower was just enough to leak through the holes in the decaying building and drip onto the ruined tiles of Eames' apartment. Eames had stood under the water for a while. He couldn't ever wash himself clean, but it felt good to be rejuvenated a little. Now his matted hair clung to his skin and his shirt to his body. He peeled the soaked garment off and wrung it over the small yellow dandelion growing through a dry crack in the tile. Eames had never been a gardener—he had a black thumb, really—but this one little flower refused to die.

"Just you and me, mate," he said to the flower, and the breeze blowing through the hole in the wall made it look as if the fluttering ball of petals nodded in reply.

Eames had never learned to cultivate anything, and that was his problem. Whether it was a plant or a friendship or even a relationship, he failed every time. He'd been on the run so long that he was incapable of thinking of anyone but himself. It was hardly a startling revelation, but some shriveled remnant of Eames' sense of morality panged in regret. For the thousandth time he wondered what he would have been like if he'd stayed behind to become the Source of Her Majesty's Temple in London. He would have been trapped, yes, but likely he'd be the better person for it. A proper Source couldn't help but think of others. He'd be better-equipped socially, for sure.

Better-equipped to love.

And that's what it was, the warm feeling that burned slowly deep within him. Eames had come to terms with it. He wasn't just _in_ love; he _loved_ Arthur. More than infatuation, he respected the man. He admired him. He wanted to protect him. Wanted him to be happy. And that wasn't a sign of weakness, Eames realized, but of strength. He had been afraid that after Robert, that part of him was atrophied, never to function again. But the pain told him otherwise. Only dead things felt no pain, and his heart was twisting in anguish over what he had done and what he had lost.

But if Eames had recovered once, he could recover again. He could refuse to give up, like the little yellow dandelion still growing despite all the odds, and perhaps next time he would get it right. He would start over in a new city, with a new life, and next time, things would be different.

He couldn't leave just yet, though. He had to earn his _tabula rasa_ by cleaning up the mess he'd made. He had to try and set things right.

_Robert_.

* * *

><p>It had rained every afternoon the three days prior, so it was only natural if entirely unfitting that the sky was a clear, perfect blue the day of Mal's funeral. The color of her eyes. Arthur stood at a distance from the gravesite, his feet planted shoulder width apart and his eyelashes resting against his cheeks as he simply breathed. He could do this. Never mind that Dom hadn't spoken to him in three days, never mind that Arthur's own stupidity falling for Eames had contributed greatly to Mal's death. Never mind that with the last of his money gone, Arthur had spent the previous three nights with Yusuf in Ariadne's dorm with all his belongings in storage. Never mind that with Mal gone, Arthur was short a best friend.<p>

He desperately wished he could talk to her now. Mal could be self-absorbed, just as Dom could be, but when Arthur was truly in need, she had always been there for him. She'd known what to say when his father had died, and when Ariadne had moved out and he'd had to deal with the sudden reality of being alone for the first time in his life. He wanted to pour his heart out to her, ask her how to fix the things inside him that felt broken, have her words soothe the sting of betrayal like a cool, rich balm.

"But there is no use wanting something you can't have," she would have said in her mother's soft, lilting accent, rendered faint after so many years living outside the temple with Dom. "Set your sights on something attainable."

Arthur opened his eyes and saw Dom facing the casket—closed, of course—his head bowed in silent grief with a guard by his side. Maybe Arthur could try to speak to him; for Mal's sake, and for Dom's and his own. None of them should have to face this without all the support available to them. But then the cantor leading the interment ceremony began to chant in the High language, and the opportunity had passed. Arthur took his place beside Ariadne and Yusuf, across the gravesite from Dom and his handler. Later, then.

They buried Mal in the city's largest, oldest cemetery, a gorgeous expanse of rolling green hills and stone monuments surrounded by oak trees. She would have loved the service, the riotous colors of the flowers and the quiet humor in the homily, given by a man of the Los Angeles Temple who had known Mal when she was a child. The only aspect of which she wouldn't have approved was the way a shell-shocked Miles held the hands of her children, James and Phillippa, and kept them a careful distance from their father. The significance of the things happening around them was lost on little James, but Phillippa knew. Arthur could see it in the way her eyes were rimmed with red and her cheeks tear-stained. She kept casting furtive glances at her father, chin tucked against her chest. Arthur felt his heart breaking all over again.

Then the service was over and Mal's casket was laid to rest in the cold earth. Professor Miles took James' and Phillippa's hands and led them away. Arthur attempted to hide the tears of grief that suddenly slid down his cheeks, but the scene quickly grew to overwhelm him. When the rest of the crowd began to deposit their flowers atop the casket and disperse, Arthur retreated to the shade of one of the broad oak trees, away from prying eyes. His fingers toyed with the stem of the thorn-less rose he held and when footsteps began to approach his hiding place, his blurry vision ensured that he didn't realize it was Dom until the man spoke.

"Arthur."

"Dominick," he said in surprise, bringing a sleeve up to wipe hastily at his eyes. When he'd blinked his vision back into focus, he saw that Dom was looking at him with a barely-there smile tinged with wry sadness. His guard lurked in the background, and Arthur was thankful for the bit of privacy.

"You don't have to pretend you haven't been crying. We all have." True to form, Dom looked haggard and miserable and red-eyed. He paused, as if carefully considering his words. "I'm... sorry about the other day. About refusing to speak to you."

Arthur shook his head. "Please, Dom, don't apologize. You have nothing to—gods, it's all my fault, so don't you even... Mal..."

"Look," Dom said with a raised hand, voice cracking with barely suppressed emotion. "Mal is... She's dead. My wife is dead. It doesn't matter how it happened; not at this point, anyway. I need all the help I can get, Arthur, and I'm asking you to... You're still my best friend, okay? Can you just... be that for me?"

Arthur would have been anything Dom wanted him to be, done anything Dom wanted him to do. But he didn't trust his voice for the moment, so he let his actions speak his answer for him. One moment they were standing a wary five feet apart, and the next he was crushing Dom to him in desperation, vowing over and over to himself never to let his friend down again. He could feel the hitch in Dom's breath against his shoulder, felt him trying to hold onto his composure and failing.

"Let's get you back home, alright," he said and Dom nodded. Arthur left Dom under the tree to say a hasty goodbye to Ariadne, who mustered a thoughtful little smile.

"Go take care of him," she said, her hand clasped with Yusuf's, and so Arthur left them to help his friend. To do his duty.

* * *

><p>Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but it was still unacceptable that it had taken betrayal and murder for Eames to realize that Robert had never been good for him. If he looked carefully, the signs had been there all along. What Eames had seen of Robert's business transactions had proved that the man could be cruel. When he talked about his father, whose failing health heralded Robert's impending takeover, it was with mingled terror and glee. Even then Eames had had misgivings, but Robert had placated him by showering him with gifts and affection. "I've never met someone so remarkable as you," Robert had said roughly a month after they'd met, after he'd sussed out the truth that Eames wasn't the traveling dignitary he'd claimed to be. "You're so brave."<p>

He should have seen those words for what they were—a threat.

"Move out of that shitty old apartment you've got," Robert had asked of him near the three month mark of their relationship. "I want you to stay here." Now as Eames moved about the wreck of a place, searching for anything he might need, he mused that the flat seemed more like home than Robert's magnificent penthouse at the top of the Fischer Building ever had. Robert had treated him rather like a kept boy, providing him with food and shelter and clothing and affection, and then taking it out of his body. Eames thought he hadn't minded at the time, but now the idea of it sickened him.

He stared at his hands for a moment, fighting the realization that he had later used them to touch Arthur. But nothing good could come of that thought, so he abandoned it and set his sights toward the future. Eames had faced his own demons. Now it was time to make the long trek to Central and face the music.

Fischer Tower loomed like a pillar to the heavens, casting its long and heavy shadow out over the courtyard at the entrance. It was early in the morning yet, and the commuter rail track through the heart of the building was empty in the absence of rush hour traffic. The moored airship still drifted lazily in the breeze, and Eames remembered with a pang the way the London landscape had looked from high in the sky aboard his uncle's _Extractor_. Phineas has been the one to smuggle Eames from London, and Eames wished dearly that the man were still alive. He could use that kind of friend.

He was stopped by the armed doorman when he reached the massive front doors of the building's lobby, and Eames prepared for a fight. But when the doorman took a closer look at him, he backed away with an anxious smile. "My apologies, Mr. Eames. You've been expected. Mr. Fischer has sent his personal lift to the private entrance, if you'd like to accompany me there."

"I know the way and I'll manage on my own, thanks," Eames replied tersely, and he watched with somewhat bitter amusement as the doorman immediately nodded in deference to his wishes.

"Of course, sir, very good. Welcome back."

Eames shook his head and entered the open door, and as he made his way through the public lobby to the tightly-controlled private access point in the rear of the building, heads turned, but his way was uncontested. He felt snippets of déjà vu as he ascended to the 80th floor in the lavish electric lift, thinking back to Saito. At the time he'd believed the task the businessman had set out for him to be impossible. There was no way Eames could have carried it out. Now, he wasn't so sure. He didn't believe he was capable of killing Robert, but punishing him... Well, that remained to be seen. Eames took a deep, calming breath and let all the anger and shame and hurt drain from his body, leaving only the here and now and the strange, buoyant confidence the thought of protecting Arthur had instilled in him.

"Welcome back, Mr. Eames," said the doorman between the lift and the entrance to Robert's private abode. "Mr. Fischer is waiting." Eames schooled his features into something that approached neutral and stepped inside. But nothing could have prepared him for what he'd face, here in Robert's perch at the top of the world.

"Hello, Jonathan."

* * *

><p>Arthur might have felt guiltier about taking up residence along with Yusuf in Dom's big, empty penthouse apartment, if it weren't so apparent that Dom needed them there. He imagined the grieving man would go mad if left alone with only the guard who stood watch 247 outside the door. Dom wandered around like a ghost from room to room, staring sadly at his children's empty beds and running his fingers along the picture frames on the mantel. He refused to sleep in his and Mal's room, camping out on the sofa instead, while Yusuf took the guest room and Arthur, by process of elimination, had the master.

Sometimes Arthur wished for Mal's ghost to appear, to haunt her home or follow him around just so he'd be able to see her again. She never showed.

It had been a tense existence for them all the past few days. Dom's court date loomed over their heads, and things didn't look good. The evidence against him was circumstantial, but with Maurice Fischer running the show, it was unlikely that the real culprit would get his just deserts. Robert would realistically never stand trial for what he'd done if they couldn't find overwhelming evidence against him. Worse, the constant threat of assassination was only somewhat ameliorated by the presence of the guard outside. Arthur had no doubt that if Robert thought he were truly in danger, he could find a way to have them all killed.

Right now Arthur sat next to Dom on the sofa, Yusuf and a visiting Ariadne on the loveseat. Arthur had to commend his sister—sometimes she was overbearing, but he couldn't think of anyone better to draw someone out of depression than she. Dom had smiled at least three times in the past hour, more than Arthur had seen from him since posting his bail.

"I'm sure you'll be okay," Ariadne was saying. "Even if they find you guilty at first, Arthur and I can get the evidence we need to exonerate you and incriminate Fischer."

Dom didn't sound convinced, but he was hopeful, at least. "His father may be running this city, but I doubt the public would stand idly by if they knew for a fact what Robert was capable of doing."

"Right. I know we can prove that this is a frame. We _will_ get your kids back." Ariadne reached out to touch Dom's hand. "And at the very least, we know Eames hasn't gone to Robert and sold us out."

Just like that, Dom went rigid and jerked his hand away, and Arthur was forced to reassess his ideas about his sister's tact. Arthur's own heart began to thud painfully in his chest, the way it did anytime anyone mentioned Eames. At least Ariadne seemed to realize her mistake, her eyes widening as she shifted backwards on her seat.

"Sorry, I'm—gods, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to–" she said in one breath. But Dom's posture had gone closed off, his expression dismissive.

"So you say," he looked at her coolly.

Ariadne, shaken, leaned almost imperceptibly against Yusuf for support. "No, I... the eavesdropping spell, remember? I'd have heard."

"Would you?" Dom challenged. "Why not let us all listen in, then. Maybe we'd hear something useful."

"I don't think this is a good idea. Dom, you don't–" Yusuf began to say, but Dom whirled on him to cut him off, launching himself to his feet.

"Don't you fucking tell me what is and isn't good for me! You don't speak for me, you don't know me, you don't fucking _care_. You say you do, but you didn't fucking love Mal like I did! It isn't your kids on the line, or your life, so you can take your opinions and shove them up your fucking ass, because I don't listen to you."

And Dom kept yelling, and Yusuf stood up chest to chest to him, and Ariadne had gone teary-eyed and pale where she'd sunken further into the loveseat cushions, but all of it was drowned from Arthur's consciousness by the sudden horrible thrill that ran down his spine. Ice froze in his veins, his heart suddenly hammering as if his life was on the line. But it wasn't.

Was it?

He couldn't know regardless, for his vision swam with blackness broken by only the glint of two pale eyes.

For a moment, nothing.

There were voices in his ear now, screaming his name at him. Only when the sound of his own pulse rushing in his ears had subsided did he realize that it was Ariadne and Dom and Yusuf, and they all sounded panicked. Arthur blinked his eyes open and stared with some perplexity at the ceiling.

"Arthur, shit," Dom said, smacking lightly at the side of his face. "Glad you're back with us. What the hell happened?"

Arthur tried to shift himself up and an immediate wave of nausea spiked in his belly, so he allowed Dom to lower him back to the cool floor. "I don't... I don't know. What did you see?"

"We saw you stand up and go completely pale, then just pass out in the middle of our argument," Yusuf supplied. "Put an end to it, at least. We've been trying to wake you up for five minutes. You were completely unresponsive to anything we did, and you kept whispering something about a pale-eyed man in the High language. It took me a minute to figure it out."

"But I don't speak the High language." Arthur's brow furrowed in confusion as he wracked his brain for the translation to Yusuf's words and failed. It was impossible at best.

"I know you don't," said Ariadne. "And there was one other thing. You mentioned Eames."

Arthur's heart skipped a beat in his chest and his eyes went wide. Why had this happened to him? "Help me up," he asked, and Dom and Yusuf managed to haul him to his feet. The nausea retreated rapidly, but the episode lingered in a strange tingling feeling behind his eyes. He settled back onto the couch with shaking hands.

"Can we do anything to help you?" Ariadne asked, kneeling down to check the dilation of his pupils. "Water, food, anything?"

Arthur gripped her by the shoulder, never more sure of any decision he'd ever made. "I think you should activate the eavesdropping spell."

* * *

><p>"Hello, Jonathan."<p>

All the breath rushed from Eames' lungs at once. He'd somehow forgotten how utterly beautiful Robert was. It was clear, though, that Robert had not forgotten. He slid from his chaise longue, draped his jacket and tie over one of the arms and paced the floor in Eames' direction with an entirely self-conscious grace. His open, sharply pressed shirt and slacks accentuated the lean, elegant lines of his body. His unblinking eyes were still that cool, clear pale blue—but it was the eyes that ultimately gave him away. They were penetrating and calculating as ever, but over them was a nearly imperceptible glassiness, a slight sheen to his brow. Something in him had slipped.

"Robert," Eames greeted him in return, very much on his guard. Robert approached to within inches from him, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"I knew you'd come back."

"Did you," Eames said. He very nearly followed it with a mordant comment about it having nothing to do with Robert's charms, but he thought the better of it. Much as his body wanted him to run, much as his mind recoiled at the thought of staying here another second, at letting Robert _touch_ him, he had to remain on the man's good side if he wanted to bargain. He settled for a mild, "You've been keeping track of me."

"I keep track of my things," Robert nodded in acknowledgment, a dry little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He planted his palm in the center of Eames' chest, possessive, and dragged it over the place where the Stop had been. "I'm glad you came, though. With poor Nash gone, I was having a bit of trouble following your movements."

Eames swallowed, breathing deeply through his nose. This was it. "I know what you're planning, Robert. And I know what you hired Nash for."

Robert backed off a few feet, his eyes wide as he laughed in genuine pleasure. "You always were a sharp one, Jonathan. Of course you figured it out."

"I know _what_you're planning. The death of all Sources, it wasn't difficult to figure out."

"Very good."

"...But I think I know _why_, too."

In an instant, Robert's pleased expression morphed into a frown, like Eames had thrown dirt on his ice cream cone. "_Do_ you know?" he asked with his head cocked. "Do you really? Because you're clever, but the why of it is something a little bit more personal than that."

"It's simple," Eames tried, hoping he had it right. He couldn't claim to know how Robert's mind worked. "You're a Void, and you got jealous of everyone else. Not just Sources, but anybody with magic. If you can get rid of all the Sources, one at a time—even within just a small region—you start to level the playing field."

Robert was back in his face before Eames could blink, suddenly furious. His pale eyes narrowed and his hands twitched in barely contained rage, and it was all Eames could do not to flinch at the sight of him. "You're fucking _wrong_. You can't know, none of you can! You're all sick, you're not normal, you're twisted. You're one of them! Fucking unnatural, the way you can speak to the magic and use it to do things. Where does it come from? Why is it—you see? Nobody knows. No one should have that kind of power, _no one_!"

Eames stayed silent through Robert's tirade, eyes wide and appalled. He had known Robert wasn't quite right, but this went beyond the realms of slightly unhinged and straight into frenzied lunacy. Robert had shown signs of paranoia before, but his state had degenerated since the last time Eames saw him. He looked ready to fly into a fit and attack at any moment as he began to pace about the wide, windowed room.

"It's not about leveling the playing field," he said, teeth gritted. "It's about getting rid of all this corruption, this _wrongness. _Killing it at the source." He turned to Eames, his expression one of eerily fond regard. "Even if it's you."

Eames closed his eyes against his better judgment. This shouldn't have hurt. He'd dealt with this already, and it shouldn't have fucking _hurt_, but it did. "I was the last straw, wasn't I?" he said quietly, almost to himself. "I pushed you over the edge. When you found out I was a Source..."

"You fucking lied to me," Robert smiled. "But you know what? I want to thank you. Because if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have had the motivation to enact my plan."

And despite the fact that Eames knew, he fucking _knew _it was stupid, he clung to that one last glimmer of hope in his heart and asked him, "Is that why you didn't just kill me? Is that why you put the Stop on me and left me in the desert rather than having Nash just cut my heart out in my sleep?"

Robert's fond smile grew wider, and he closed in once more. He drew Eames into a gentle hug, and Eames allowed it. He melted into it, because deep in his heart he couldn't believe that Robert had actually wanted him dead. But then Robert spoke.

"Jonathan, Jonathan. You weren't meant to live. I left you out there because I couldn't bear to be the one who delivered the killing blow, yes. But you were supposed to give up out there. I wanted you to die."

Eames' body reacted of its own accord, flinching and wriggling desperately to get away, as if to escape something that was burning him. Robert only held on tighter, his surprising strength pinning Eames' arms at his sides and his nostrils flaring with the strain.

"But I learned, didn't I?" Robert said through clenched teeth, near his ear. "I realized my mistake trying to kill you, and it was a good thing that Arthur Rydell saved you, because it was too late for me to take it back. I realized I should have held onto you, because I still wanted you. And now I've got you."

Far from being comforting, Eames felt bile rise in his throat at the words. But he couldn't argue just yet. "A-Arthur," he whispered. He ignored the angry little noise Robert made and flexed his arms. Robert was wiry, but he was no match for Eames' own raw strength. Despite Robert's protests, he pried the smaller man off him and set him a safer distance away. "I need to talk to you about Arthur." This was what he had come for, and what he knew he must do.

Two things happened simultaneously—Robert's face twisted into an enraged snarl, and the magical currents around Eames' body whirled in sudden activity. It took a moment to parse, because there was no way Robert could have caused it, or even felt it. Then a more familiar magical signature emerged, and Eames had to fight a twitch of a smile.

'_Ariadne, you cheeky, clever girl_.'

* * *

><p>The voices came from nowhere and everywhere. They seemed to vibrate within Arthur's chest, within the floors and columns of the building, within everything that shared a similar resonant frequency. The effect was eerie.<p>

"_I don't want to talk about Arthur_," said an unfamiliar voice, and Arthur jerked in surprise. He didn't need any confirmation from Eames to know who he was listening to.

"I fucking told you, he's selling us out!" Yusuf cried, but Arthur held him down on the couch with an arm across his chest.

"Shh! Listen."

Yusuf sent him a poisonous glare, but he obeyed. Ariadne stared with open curiosity and Dom, while his expression was mostly unreadable, at least wasn't hostile, even when Eames spoke next.

"_Please understand me, Robert. I'm not here to beg, I just want to ask you a favor_." Eames' voice sounded calm and collected and far steadier than Arthur thought he would be under the circumstances. "_Just one thing, and if you do this for me, I'll do whatever you want_."

The sound of footsteps seemed to come from very close and far away all at once. Robert was moving, and when he spoke again it was louder, clearer. He was speaking in Eames' ear, Arthur realized. "_Tell me what it is you want_."

"_I told you, it's about Arthur_," Eames repeated. Arthur's heart stopped in his chest. "_I... I want you to leave him alone. Him and his family and friends. Please, I'll do anything you want short of helping you with your plan. I'd love it if you abandoned the plan altogether, but if that's not an option... I won't even stop you if you just... leave them out of it_."

Arthur glanced to each of his companions in turn, eyes wide with alarm. Not even Yusuf had anything to say. They were all silent for once, simply absorbing the magnitude of what they'd just heard. Eames wasn't selling them out, he was trying to _save_ them.

Somewhere deep in Arthur's heart, a budding flower on a tree he'd thought to be dead suddenly burst into bloom. But his relief was short-lived. Robert began to laugh, an unhinged cackle like he thought Eames' request the most amusing thing in the world.

"_You don't get it, do you_?" said Robert gleefully. "_They've heard the plan and they know about the things I've done. They're like you, tainted with that fucking evil you call magic. You could promise me the source of all things, and it wouldn't make a difference. They will all die_."

* * *

><p>"They will all die."<p>

Eames' heart sped, but he held his ground and his composure, his fists and jaw clenched. "That's not going to happen," he said, low and dangerous. "I won't let it."

"Oh?" Robert laughed. "Just try and fucking stop me."

It was the moment of truth. Robert wasn't bluffing—he had the means, the motive and the madness, and he would kill Arthur and all of his friends if given the chance. Eames thought back to Saito's words so many days ago.

"_When the time comes, you will know. And you will do as I have asked._"

Was Eames capable of taking Robert out, despite the year they'd spent together? Eames closed his eyes and remembered waking up in the desert, so utterly alone and betrayed. Then a face appeared, blocking off the sun. He remembered Arthur, his gentle hands and soft mouth, the smooth planes of his body, His dark eyes and the tender way he'd looked at Eames, before. The feel of Arthur around him, his smile, the moment they'd shared the night before everything had gone to hell.

When he opened his eyes and saw Robert smirking at him, his lips drawn into a twisted little mockery of a kiss, Eames realized that Saito had been totally, a hundred percent right. He could do this. He _would _do this.

"Gladly."

Eames took a deep breath and then charged.

So why was he suddenly on the floor?

One moment he was hurtling toward Robert—admittedly without a plan, but he'd have come up with something—and the next he was lying stunned on the ground, the wind knocked out of him and his head throbbing where what felt like a fist had connected with his temple. Eames looked up in confusion, trying to shake the fog from his vision, but Robert hadn't moved. Then a large, dark shadow crawled across his body as a mountain of a man stepped into the light. The man reached down and gripped Eames by the waistcoat, hauling him up to eye level. The man's knuckles were split from the force with which he'd hit Eames, but it was the face that interested him.

"You remember Peter Browning," Robert said casually, striding over to clap a hand down on Browning's shoulder.

"I do," Eames groaned, the breath squeezed out of him as Browning lifted him so high his toes barely brushed the carpet. "I do... remember him, but... he looked a little different last time, don't you... don't you think?" Browning's fingers tightened in the fabric of the waistcoat but his expression remained slack. Lifeless. His eyes were dead, like a shark's, and Eames might not have understood what he was witnessing were it not for the dread characters written in bloodwell ink across Browning's forehead. "You've... gone too far. You know what the... penalty is for... creating a golem."

"There is no one to stop me," said Robert, his mouth stretching to form a wicked smile. He nodded to Browning. "Take care of him."

* * *

><p>"Golem," Ariadne repeated, anxious, turning the word over on her tongue. "I've heard that term before. Why is that familiar?"<p>

Arthur was hardly in any state to answer, so he was grateful when Yusuf spoke up. "Golems are forbidden magic. Automatons are legal to create because they only have as much intelligence and free will as their creators can give them. They're built from scratch, inorganic and soulless. Golems are forbidden because they're _people_."

"People?" Ariadne breathed, her eyes widening. "What do you mean?"

"Golems fulfill the same function as automatons—they do the bidding of their masters. But to create a golem, you must first kill a man and then sacrifice his soul." Arthur shuddered.

"My father used to tell me ghost stories about golems," Dom added. "The body is kept alive with spell markings written onto the skin. Nobody knows whether the golem is aware anymore. But in my dad's stories, they were. They were aware of everything, but they were powerless to fight it. Slaves who felt pain but kept on fighting anyway, because they had to."

Ariadne had gone sheet white. "That's horrifying..."

"And that's what Eames has to face," Arthur cut in. He couldn't help the quaver in his voice, or the trembling of his hands, damn it. He still fucking cared. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't _not _be terrified. But then, to his surprise, Dom laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Eames will be okay," he said quietly, so only Arthur could hear. "You heard him; he's got something to fight for. You."

Arthur turned to look at Dom, incredulous, but Dom's little smile was private, meant for Arthur only. Arthur suspected it was out of some sort of misplaced guilt that Dom refused to advertise his concern for Eames, but it left Arthur feeling touched.

"Thank you." He and Dom had never been much for physical displays of affection, but some situations warranted it. Some _needed _it. He placed his hand atop Dom's and gave his fingers a squeeze.

They all sat back in anticipation of the battle to come, but this time, Arthur felt something approaching hope.

* * *

><p>Browning was a powerhouse, but magic flowed through Eames like his own personal maelstrom. Robert had taken cover, and wisely so—between Browning heaving furniture, regardless of the tear at his muscles, and Eames shredding everything that came his way, this room was not a safe place to be. Twice now, Browning had managed to get his arms around Eames. There was no give to him, even when Eames struggled his hardest. Without the capacity to feel pain, the only limit to Browning's power was the absolute limit of his body's strength. And a man could endure nearly anything when his free will was gone.<p>

Eames would tire long before Browning's body ever gave out.

"Peter, please!" he called behind him as he scrabbled over the ruins of what had once been a very nice sofa. He'd never been close to Browning, but he'd known the man. Browning was cunning, ruthless and a dedicated supporter of the Fischer regime—and he'd _never_ come close to deserving a fate like this. No one did. Eames didn't have any idea whether his words even got through to the man; his dead shark eyes stayed locked on Eames and his jerking footsteps carried him relentlessly closer. But Eames would try anyway. "Listen to me! This isn't you, this is Robert controlling you. Don't let him. Fight him off!"

Browning's response was to overturn a table, and Eames was forced to duck. Browning spied the opening and lunged forward, reaching for Eames' leg, but a sudden gust of wind knocked him aside. He hit the ground hard and immediately climbed to his feet again, undaunted.

Eames cursed and darted away. If he were aiming to kill, he could have ended this by now. He could have torn Browning to pieces and left him utterly destroyed. But Browning was technically already dead. How did one kill a dead man? And if Browning's consciousness was still in there somewhere, still aware of the pain, Eames would not let him suffer more than he had to. He couldn't take the chance.

Piece by piece, they destroyed nearly every item of decor in Robert's lavish main room. A decorative fountain was hurled to the ground and cracked to bits of concrete. With a whisper, Eames transformed the water sloshing at Browning's feet into ice. Browning staggered as the crystals began to climb his body, but he paid them no heed. As soon as he was free, he began to advance again.

Eames' body was beginning to protest, and he was breathing hard. He had avoided doing any sort of physical damage to Browning, but he couldn't pull his punches forever. Perhaps Browning could be incapacitated. Eames turned to face the golem, and he focused the magic swirling through him. It spiralled down to his hands, a visible, almost tangible glow that even Robert would have been able to see. Browning was just ten feet away, five, two...

"I'm sorry," Eames said in the moment before he struck. Then he streaked forward in a blur, and the glow of concentrated magic impacted a split second before his fist did. Like he'd received a one-two punch to the gut, Browning crumpled to the ground. For a moment, the golem struggled to breathe—Eames had no doubt he'd managed to shatter a few ribs. His breathing was horribly shallow and ragged, wheezing from his slack mouth. But then he got to his feet again, heedless of the pain. And in the moment when Eames stood frozen in shock, just staring, Browning struck with an attack of his own. Pain lanced down Eames' jaw and he staggered backward. His calves connected with the splintered remains of a table and with a sudden jolt of vertigo he fell over it, landing hard on his ass on the floor. Browning charged right through the wreckage, and within a second, he had his hands around Eames' throat. His meaty fingers squeezed at Eames' windpipe hard enough to crush. Yet he didn't snap Eames' neck, as easy as it would be to do. Eames felt a glimmer of promise despite the intense pain and the way his body spasmed under Browning's. Robert didn't want him dead.

After a solid thirty seconds, Browning let go. Eames immediately tried to suck a breath in, but his throat seared with pain where the pressure had fractured the cartilage. He was forced to settle for small, shallow breaths in the moment between his release and Browning's next attack, which came in the form of a solid kick to the gut. In an instant, the whole 'breathing' thing was moot.

Eames tried to scrabble away, but Browning was faster. Browning's heavy footsteps crunched after him as he crawled through shards of broken glass that stuck in his forearms, and kick after kick to his sides forced the air from his lungs. By now there wasn't a single part of Eames that wasn't in pain, and death was looking rather like the merciful option. If only he _had_ an option. He had exhausted all his strength when he'd put himself on the defensive. Five minutes could have ended this, but it was amazing how much energy it took _not _to destroy someone. Now, he couldn't have fought back if he'd tried.

Browning reached out and snagged Eames by the hair, pulling him up to his feet. The pain made Eames' eyes water as he was forced onto what was likely a twisted ankle. A large, potted ficus was the only thing remaining that had yet to be overturned, and with one quick motion, Browning slammed Eames' head into the stone pot. He'd anticipated the impact, but the force of it was too much. For a moment his vision went all black, sounds muffled down to almost nothing. He felt like he was floating, hovering in a strange disconnect between his mind and the battered body he'd inhabited.

He didn't return to full awareness for a good minute or two, and when he finally blinked his one working eye clear of blood, Browning was holding him up against a wall—and Robert was standing right behind.

"Morning, sunshine," Robert said in a mockery of the way he'd once spoken to Eames. "How are you?"

Eames' head lolled, and though he didn't have the strength to look up, he managed a twitchy smile. "Just fine," he coughed. Blood spilled from between his split lips.

Robert laughed. "You don't look so fine." He stepped forward and wiped a thumb across Eames' chin, and it came back smeared with red. He stroked the hand down the side of Eames' bruised face, gently skirting the swollen eye. "Go on now," he said. "Heal yourself. You're not very pretty when you're like this."

Fuck him. Eames let himself go slack and closed his eyes. When he concentrated, he could see the ghostly outlines of the room by the spells woven into the walls, the floors, the windows, even the furniture. He didn't sense Robert so much as the _absence_of him; a dark void where a man should have been. And Browning was awash with light, Nash's personal magical signature in the brush strokes across his forehead.

"I said, heal yourself," Robert repeated. "I know you can."

And maybe Eames could have, though he was so, so tired. But he didn't intend to play into Robert's hand. He had no idea how he could end this without hurting or killing either Robert or Browning, but he knew how he could buy himself some time. There, under Browning's feet. The sad, trampled ficus. His lips moved as he whispered silently to it, bidding it to grow.

"Stop it!" Robert growled, and Eames didn't expect the sudden slap to the side of the face, but he shook it off and continued pleading to the plant. The remains began to stir, out of Robert's line of vision. Browning might have seen it, but in his deadened state, he didn't react. Vines shot out from the fractured trunk of the tree, spiralling up Browning's legs. They grew steadily thicker and stronger, snaking up his torso to his arms, and now Robert was beginning to notice, he was leaping back, he was shouting, but it was too late. Browning dropped Eames as the vines tightened around his arms, interlocking and rendering him immobile.

Eames laughed as he dragged himself to his feet, opening his eyes to Robert staring at him with outright fury. Eames ignored him to look at Browning, encased in vines, and he frowned. Browning didn't react when Eames laid his hands on the green, leafy mass and directed them away from his face with a wave of his hand. He didn't flinch; his gaze didn't even follow Eames' movements. His forehead was cold when Eames placed a palm to it.

He knew what he needed to do now.

'Truth', read the letters painted in Nash's handwriting, in the same bloodwell ink the Stop had been written in. Eames' lips twitched in a wry smirk—there wasn't a bigger lie. Bloodwell ink had been beyond his ability to remove, back when his powers were silenced. But restored, it took just the casual wipe of a thumb to erase one of the letters. The word read 'death' now, and with a whispered sigh, the only sound he'd uttered vocally, Browning went slack. Eames might have sworn that when the magic left him, as his eyes closed, he'd looked grateful.

Robert was in his face again, but Eames couldn't bring himself to care. "This isn't over!" Robert was bleating. "Nash, Peter, I don't need either of them! Peter was a distraction, don't you get it? You haven't won anything!" Something about how this was all part of the plan, something about a trap, something about how he couldn't be stopped. It all turned to underwater bubble-blowing when Eames' hearing went. And for the second time that day, Eames' vision faded to black around the edges and he lapsed into unconsciousness.


	7. Unto knowing

Arthur stared into his half-drunk glass of scotch, wondering why the surface was rippling, only to realize his leg against the side of the coffee table was causing the whole thing to shake. This was not his finest moment.

"Why can't we hear anything? What _happened_?" he asked for what must have been the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. Dom's and Yusuf's answers were, as always, halfhearted shrugs. Ariadne didn't have an answer, but she looked at him for a few moments, quiet and pensive.

"Come with me," she said, shifting herself from where she'd sunken into the couch beside Yusuf. She reached out a hand to him and he took it, following her blindly from the thick tension of the living room to the balcony, where at least the air was fresh. Arthur glared at the bright sun hidden by fluffy clouds. The sky had no business being so blue, or the weather so warm and crisp.

Ariadne pulled his hand away from where he'd gripped the railing too tight and she turned it over, toying with his fingers. Arthur looked down at her, questioning, but Ariadne's gaze remained on his hand as she spoke. "You really loved him, didn't you."

Arthur's fingers twitched in reaction to his surprise. He hadn't expected her to catch him off guard so completely. Arthur had no immediate response to the question, and he wondered whether it was because he truly didn't know, or whether he'd hidden the answer from even himself. So he closed his eyes and went back to before things had gone wrong. In the face of the past few days, the memory was wispy, like a cobweb, but he could still recall what it felt like to fall asleep next to Eames. To be perfectly content in his arms and never want to leave.

"I think I could have," he said quietly. "I think I was on the way."

"But you couldn't anymore?" Ariadne was looking at him now, and her brown eyes were sad, her delicate mouth turned down. "It's just... you seemed so happy. And you were so worried in there."

Arthur let out a sigh and pulled his hand away. He turned back to the balcony railing and stared silently over the edge. It was a long way down, but it wouldn't take long to fall. Just a few seconds. But Arthur knew what it was like, to have those few seconds stretched into infinity by adrenaline. To have his life flash before his eyes. He closed them, unable to look anymore.

"I know it's not really his fault," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "He didn't mean for it to happen; of course he didn't. I know that. But it was still _because_of him that Mal's dead. If he'd told us about Robert from the beginning, about the risks–"

"What would you have done differently? Think about it, Arthur." Ariadne guided him away from the railing with her hands on both his shoulders, and despite the height difference, he was compelled to look at her. "Would you really have given up on him? Tossed him out to fend for himself?"

"I..."

"You wouldn't have," said Ariadne with absolute conviction. "Because you don't give up on people, and that's what I love about you best. You never gave up on me."

"Of course I didn't. You're my sister," he said, drawing her into his arms. "I could never ever give up on you."

Ariadne chuckled into his shoulder. "Still, I don't imagine I was the easiest teenager to raise."

"You weren't," Arthur agreed with a smirk, and she pulled back and gave him a look.

"But my point still stands. You don't give up on people—you don't give up _ever_. If there's a job that needs to be done, you do it. But just once, I'd like that goal you're chasing after to be for _you_."

"What do you mean?"

"You do all these things for other people," she said. "Because you don't want to let them down, or you're afraid of what they'll think if you don't, or because of your ridiculous, amazing sense of honor. You should do something for yourself, for once. I'm telling you to be _selfish_."

"What?" asked Arthur, astounded. He'd been on the receiving end of Ariadne's rants before, but this one hit hard. It stood in counterpoint to everything he'd told himself over the past two weeks, and over the past ten years. Arthur didn't _do_ selfish. But the worst part was, Ariadne was making sense.

"You know what I mean," she grinned. "You're getting it. I know you keep telling yourself you can't have what you want, but you can. And this isn't an apology for what Eames did—I still think it was wrong, yes. But if you never forgave him... I don't know. I think you'd be missing out."

Something major clicked in Arthur's head as he felt his point of view shift, his whole _world_ shift, and he could have hugged her. He would have, if Yusuf hadn't burst through the door, his eyes wide.

"It's started again."

* * *

><p>Eames was groggy as he came to again, as if he'd been drugged. But the sluggishness wasn't chemically induced; he was simply drained of all his power. The physical beating he'd taken lingered, and without his magic to heal him, it would continue to linger. His whole body felt like a bruise.<p>

There were voices in the background, and if he strained, he could hear what they were saying.

"I told you my family was in danger, and look! Look what happened. My Uncle Peter is _dead_ because of this man! I was expecting him, yes, but I wasn't expecting him to _attack _me! I had a vibe. I did, I remember telling you. So why weren't the guards posted outside my room?"

"Sir, I–"

"You're fired, Leon. I'll find a new head of security, one who isn't incompetent. I want every single guard available outside of this room."

"But your father's–"

"My father's guards, too. Don't fucking question me, don't you dare! You want to ask questions, you look in that cell and tell me what you see."

"Ah... a man, sir."

"And he's the threat! I'm the one he was after. Now that he's captured, my father is in no danger. So get all the guards up here, and when you're done, get the _fuck_out of my building."

Eames was confused for a moment, and then it occurred to him that Robert was _acting_. He was improvising his story, blaming Browning's death on Eames and opening his own father up for assassination all at once. Robert's plan might have been utterly mad, but he was still cunning as a snake in the grass. This couldn't bode well.

Leon, no more than a dim outline, gave a salute and left the room. Though his vision was still fucked, Eames could tell by the closeness of the sound that they'd moved him. He was no longer in Robert's destroyed main room, but a smaller one. The floor was cold and metal, galvanized steel. And yes, those were definitely bars surrounding him. Eames dragged himself back to full consciousness and forced his aching body to a sitting position.

"Hello yet again."

Robert managed to make lounging in a metal chair look comfortable as he watched Eames with a smile on his face, his steepled fingers resting against a crossed leg. It hardly seemed possible that someone so beautiful could be capable of such evil. "I told you I'd win," he purred. "I didn't want to lose Uncle Peter this early, true. But I have a contingency plan for everything."

Eames wrapped a hand around one of the steel bars, subtly testing its strength. Solid. "And your father? You're... murdering him because he would stand in your way?" His voice was harsh and scratchy, coming from his injured larynx.

Robert laughed. "I've been planning to off my father for years; that's nothing new. But this did seem like a convenient time to do it. He ought to croak any minute now, but no one will know for hours. The poison's undetectable and untraceable."

Eames bristled and the adrenaline sent a surge of energy through him. He used the bars to pull himself to his feet, the magic circulating through his veins once again.

Robert planted both his feet on the floor, leaning forward to stare at Eames with his unsettling blue eyes. The corners of his soft mouth turned upward in amusement. "Tell me, Jonathan. How do you like your new cage?"

"My magic isn't gone forever. It's coming back, and when I'm strong enough, I will _end this_."

"Will you?" Robert was gleeful now, and Eames felt a twinge of uncertainty in his gut. Surely Robert would have planned for this, as he'd planned for everything else. Experimentally, Eames tried to call to the wards in the room, and nothing happened. So he tried turning his magic inward instead. When he concentrated on healing his injured body, once again—nothing. Robert, of course, sensed his panic. "Figuring it out, are we?"

"What the hell did you do?" Eames demanded when not even a spoken incantation produced an effect. It wasn't a Stop, because he could feel his magic and it wasn't directly fettered. It was as if his powers were set to 'mute'. As soon as he tried to use them, nothing.

"It was Nash's idea, but I thought it was pretty clever myself. It's similar to the house arrest I had our little friend Dom placed under. He leaves his home, his magic is muted. He can't come at me. But you..." Robert motioned to a scrawled line of text just outside the boundaries of the cage, and Eames' heart sank in his chest. "Your magic is muted while you're inside. You're powerless. You can do _nothing_."

And Robert was right. Written into the spell preventing him from using his powers was his name—which made it specific to him. As long as Robert kept Eames trapped here, any number of his guards could walk right into the cage and torture him, their magic unaffected. How far in advance must Robert have planned to have constructed a cage like this? There was nothing Eames could do. Unless. _Unless_.

There was nothing _Eames _could do... but what about someone else?

He tried not to let his surprise at discovering so crucial a flaw show, to seem casual, and as he began to speak, he hoped against hope that Ariadne was still listening.

Because if she was, then Arthur was. And Arthur was his only hope.

* * *

><p>"<em>So you intend to keep me trapped in this cage forever<em>?"

"_That's the plan, yes. You're a pain in my ass... but you're quite nice to look at._"

Ariadne's hand traced calming patterns onto Arthur's back. Not only did Eames sound awful, but the situation seemed futile. Hopeless. There was no way Arthur could hope to take on Fischer alone. He could spend years preparing to storm the building, but even Arthur was no match for a team of trained guards. He despised being so powerless, but there was truly nothing he could do for Eames.

Arthur was about to tell Ariadne that this was enough, that she could end the spell. He didn't need to hear any more. Listening to Eames fight was one thing. Listening to him being tortured and trapped was another entirely. But when he opened his mouth to express his concerns to his sister, she shushed him. Eames was still talking, and he didn't sound defeated. Instead, he was anxious—hopeful, even.

"_And_ _that's all I get, a five by eight steel cage? There's not even any bedding in here_."

"_When I want to _bed _you, Jonathan, I'll _add_ bedding_." Robert was getting irritated now, but Eames wouldn't shut up.

"_In the meantime, I imagine I'll have to sleep on this steel floor. Or maybe I'll learn to sleep standing up. I'll just hang on the bars all day, like I am now, and I'll stare at you_."

"_You can be quiet now; I've already won_."

"_But it'll be a hollow victory. This room is... right off your bedchamber, right? If I howl all day, I imagine you'd hear me through the walls_."

"_If I have to sedate you, I will_!"

"_And this cage only takes up a third of the room. Come on, Robbie, I know you're rich. You could have afforded a bigger one_."

"_If you're lonely, I could find you some company. A tiger, maybe_."

Yusuf turned to Arthur, a brow raised in questioning. "What the hell is he doing?" And in a flash, Arthur knew.

"He's talking to _me_."

"What do you mean, he's talking to you?" Yusuf was skeptical, wary as Arthur got up and began to pace. Ariadne jumped up as well, her mouth fallen open in shock.

"It's the eavesdrop! He knows about it!"

Arthur paced in tight circles, hands on the side of his head. "I understand it now. He knows I'm listening in, so he's describing his cage in as much detail as he can without Robert catching on. He... gods, he wants me to _Warp _there." But there was no way; not without having seen the place at all. He'd taken enough risk when he Warped to Nash's ornithopter, and he'd seen that, at least, however briefly. Making the jump to somewhere he had absolutely no mental picture of was impossible. He'd die.

"You have to do it!" Ariadne had to jog to keep up with him, and at the end of each circuit, Arthur turned away. He wasn't sure he could endure having to see his sister's hopeful expression every time he looked at her, knowing he was going to have to let her down.

No, Eames would have to resign himself to his fate, just as Arthur would. What Ariadne had told him on the balcony had been nice, but that's all it was—pretty words. Reality was harsher and grittier and a hundred times more brutal.

"Don't just leave him there," Ariadne was pleading. "He's counting on you, and you know it!"

"It does sound dangerous, but what other hope has he got, mate?" Yusuf shrugged.

"I've never been there," Arthur argued, although he sensed it was futile. There was no way Ariadne or Yusuf could understand. He couldn't blame them for that. "I have to have seen it, I _have _to have! A description isn't enough."

"Arthur, you're the bravest person I know. You're constantly pushing the boundaries of your Talent. There's nobody better than you!" Ariadne was panicking now, and it was contagious. Arthur's heart was beating rabbit-fast in his chest, his stomach fluttering, his adrenaline racing. "Please!"

Finally Arthur had reached his limit. He stopped pacing and closed his eyes, his fingers threaded through his hair and tugging at the ends. There was no way to make them see how hopeless this was, how _helpless_ Arthur was left in the face of this impossibility. He couldn't stand it anymore. "_I can't_!"

"You can." And it wasn't Ariadne's voice cheering him on this time, but Dom's. Arthur turned to see Dom staring at him, a steady, quiet confidence burning in his blue eyes. The lines of his body bespoke his absolute, total conviction. There was no question—he absolutely believed it was possible. That if anybody could do it, Arthur could.

And it was Dom's words that slowed Arthur's heart in his chest. That cleared the fog.

"_You didn't even bother to paint the walls. This industrial white will grate after a while with no natural sunlight. What was this before, a bloody closet? Not even any windows..._"

Eames' words came slower now, more measured. Less enthusiastic. He was beginning to give up hope in Arthur—and that, more than anything, decided it. Ariadne _had _been right. This was Arthur's chance to take something for himself. And if that meant a little risk, well. The best things in life were worth it.

"Okay."

Ariadne's grin could have outshone the sun, and even Dom was smiling now.

Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He pictured it, the windowless room painted white, roughly ten by twelve. The tall, steel cage, barred, with the inscription running around the sides. Robert outside the cage, Eames inside, hands wrapped around the bars—leaving just enough space for Arthur to Warp in beside him.

'_You stupid, asshole genius_,' Arthur smirked to himself. '_Gods, I hope this works_.' And then a more solemn, earnest, '_Please. Please, just... take me to him_.'

He exhaled, and took the plunge.

* * *

><p>For a split second, Eames thought to himself, '<em>This is going to work<em>.' But even thinking it, he realized, was a mistake. Robert stood up, his chair clattering to the ground behind him and his expression slack and horrified. He'd discovered the fatal flaw. He _knew_.

"No!" he shouted, hands wrapped around the bars of the door in an instant. "Fuck, _no_! Guards, dammit!" They must have been far away, but Eames could hear the pounding of their boots despite the distance, even through the walls. They'd be bursting through the door in a matter of seconds.

'_Come on, Arthur, please,_please.'

Robert was fumbling in his pockets for the keys to the cage, the soldiers were getting closer, and if Arthur didn't show soon, Eames would die right here.

'_You can do it; I know you can_.'

Robert had the key in the door, he was opening it, the first guard stumbled into the room, his gun aimed at eye level—

Everything stopped.

And in the very next moment, Eames was not alone. No one looked more bewildered than Arthur, standing there with his hand over his chest to catch his breath, glancing frightened around the room. There was no time. Robert recovered from his shock and flung the door open, diving at them. In a panic, Eames closed his hand around Arthur's wrist and shouted, "_Go_!"

Like Eames had slapped him out of a stupor, Arthur's eyes went intent and focused, and together they fell backwards into nothing. But as they went, Eames felt Robert's slender fingers encircle his ankle and tighten, and his scream followed them all the way through the void.

* * *

><p>Arthur hit the ground hard, and for the first few seconds, there was nothing but silence. Then everything went to hell. It was chaos as Eames collapsed beside him, his eyes glassing over as he straddled the line between consciousness and oblivion. And attached to him—gripping his ankle hard enough to bruise—was Robert Fischer.<p>

Ariadne and Yusuf were already prying Arthur and Eames away, dragging them to safety as carefully as possible to avoid exacerbating any of Eames' injuries. Robert seemed to be in shock, his mouth slack and his body frozen. The only parts of him that moved were his eyes. He didn't seem quite able to comprehend what had happened, and Arthur felt a surge of _incredibly_ satisfying schadenfreude. There was no way Robert could have planned for this, and yet it had worked out perfectly in their favor. It was more than any of them could have hoped. Now Robert was at _their_ mercy.

Everything fell silent as Dom pushed up from his place on the couch and strode over from across the room. All the hairs on Arthur's body stood on end. If his friend had looked encouraging before, steady, his stare now could have turned water to ice. Dom looked at Robert with the cold fury of a man who'd had his wife stolen from him and his children taken away. A man who held all the cards in his hand and wouldn't hesitate to use them. A man with nothing to lose.

When Dom wrenched Robert to his feet, it was by the throat, with an iron grip so tight the man's breath came out in wheezing gasps. "Do you know who I am, Mr. Fischer?" Dom asked.

Robert, unable to speak, was forced to give a painful nod.

"And you know what it is that you've taken from me?"

The whites of Robert's eyes showed as they whirled with panic, but he had no choice but to nod again.

"Then you know I'm not just letting you go."

Another nod, his eyes squeezed shut and streaming with tears from the corners.

Dom smiled, a little cruel and very, very pleased. "It's really so good of you to join us here, where my magic still works—you've opened up so many new doors of possibility." Realization began to dawn over Robert in a visible way as his shaking body sagged. He knew what was coming, and he could do nothing to stop it.

"You are going to go to the authorities, and you're going to confess what you've done," said Dom in a level, even voice. Arthur didn't have to be the focus of the Charm to feel the echoes of its effect, and it made him shudder. "You'll provide them with all the evidence they need to exonerate me, and incriminate yourself. And when they ask you whether you're confessing under duress, you will lie. You will tell them that if you didn't, the guilt would eat you alive. I am your guilt, Mr. Fischer. I'm your conscience, so take a good, long look at me. Because if you _don't_ confess... I promise you, my face will be the last thing you see. I will end you."

Dom let go, and although Robert remained standing, his posture was like that of a puppet with its strings cut. His breath came in short sobs and when his eyes opened they were filled with tears.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," Robert said. "Yes."

Everyone, even Eames, who was slumped half-conscious against Arthur's shoulder, watched as Robert turned and began to walk toward the front door. And although Arthur didn't have it in him to feel anything approaching sympathy for the ruined man, he felt a quiet sense of regret that it had come to this. Robert's eyes were blank and half-lidded and his body trudged as if on autopilot as he exited Dom's apartment.

The lift down was just outside and down the hall, and so was the highly confused guard. "Mr. Fischer! What the hell are you doing here?" Arthur heard muffled through the walls.

"Get me a cab, and a direct line to the police and the Los Angeles Times. There's something I need to do."

"Y-Yes, sir. Do you need someone to accompany you?"

"Come with me," Robert agreed. "You won't be needed here anymore." And their footsteps faded away.

Just like that, it was over. It was all over. All they had left to do now was to put back together the pieces of their lives.

* * *

><p>Somewhere between being beaten within a few inches of his life, watching his former lover be defeated and shamed, and Arthur kissing him full on the mouth, desperate with relief, Eames had given up on remaining conscious. He'd passed out again, this time for hours as his body began to replenish and regenerate itself. He dreamed—but this time they weren't nightmares. They were flashes of images more than anything. Sunlight filtering through broad, yellow-green leaves. A wide, blue, cloudless sky. Gnarled old bark and thick branches. Knotted roots. The sound of cicadas and a brook, chattering over stones and into a deep pool.<p>

Eames had no idea what it meant, but he felt an overwhelming sense of calm. He was safe here with these branches wrapped around him. Or were they arms? The blue sky turned to the soft, spangled velvet of night. Or was it an eiderdown? Nightingales sang in the branches of the tree. Or was it Arthur, humming tunelessly under his breath?

Eames cracked his eyes open sleepily, almost loath to leave the serenity of the dream world. But it didn't matter that his battered body seemed to want to kill him, or that his left leg was asleep, or that he desperately needed to use the loo. None of it mattered because Arthur was here with him, and he was smiling.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Eames croaked, and he sounded _awful_, and his breath was probably like a dragon's arse, but bloody hell, Arthur was _smiling_ at him. Eames reached up with a shaky hand and thumbed at one of his dimples.

Arthur's grin grew so wide that his eyes crinkled at the corners. "You idiot," he said fondly, working his fingers into Eames' hair and stroking at his scalp. Arthur could have insulted Eames all day and he'd still be content to lie here with his head in the other man's lap, soaking in the sound of his voice. The fact that he was here, and alive, had yet to sink in. Not to mention the fact that when Eames had needed him the most, but deserved him the least, Arthur hadn't let him down.

"You came for me," said Eames, and though his voice was hardly more than a gravelly rasp, the wonder shone through.

Arthur's fingers brushed delicately against the ring of bruising around his throat. "Of course I came for you. Did you think I wouldn't?" Eames raised an eyebrow at him, calling his bluff, and Arthur's small smile turned sheepish. "Alright, I admit that Warping into someplace I'd never seen before was terrifying, and I didn't think I could do it."

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it."

Arthur looked away then, his dark eyes lowered as if he were ashamed. "I was... wrong to treat you that way. When you came clean. It was a gut reaction, without any thought as to how you might feel. I'm sorry." He must have sensed the thousand and one arguments that popped up in Eames' head, for he placed a finger against Eames' lips and continued. "Now, I'm not saying what you did was right, because it wasn't. People are dead, friendships are strained, and I haven't forgiven you yet."

As much as Eames' actions had warranted it, that bit hurt.

"But I still care about you. Fuck it, I'm _crazy _about you. And if we start over... maybe we can see about you earning that forgiveness."

Arthur shut his eyes, as if he'd just realized the magnitude of the words he'd spoken. As if he were afraid of Eames' reaction, afraid he'd be rejected. Eames was glad for it; with Arthur's eyes closed, he couldn't see the way Eames' own had suddenly gone moist and stinging at the corners. Eames' breath caught in his chest. This was more than he deserved or expected.

Arthur blinked his eyes open when, heedless of his injuries, Eames crawled upright to seal their lips together in a kiss. "Fuck, you're amazing, gods, _thank you_," he said into Arthur's mouth and cupped his jaw in his hands, and Arthur's eyes fluttered closed again. He pulled Eames into his lap, and the world could have ended right then and Eames would have been content.

Color had risen in Arthur's cheekbones when they finally pulled way. Arthur's gaze was glassy and half-lidded, and only partially focused. His mouth hung slack, and Eames wanted to kiss it again, but then it drew into a half-hearted smirk.

"Gods, that was nice," he said, "but before we do that again—and I want to do it again, all the time, if you'll let me—you _have _to brush your teeth. Damn."

Eames hurt himself laughing, and Arthur joined in, and for a moment, life seemed about as perfect as it was capable of being.

* * *

><p>Dominick Cobb was a free man. Today, Robert Fischer had stepped onto a podium in front of thousands of Los Angeles citizens and confessed that he had been behind the murders of the Los Angeles Source and Mal Cobb. He'd intimated every last detail of his plan to kill all Sources, confessing his jealousy as a Void and his hatred for all things magical. He'd produced pages and pages of documents accounting how he'd sought out the services of an assassin. And he'd cried. Some of it, Arthur knew, as he stood hand in hand watching with Eames, was because of the Charm. But he suspected some of it was genuine. As the police led him off the stage in handcuffs, he looked almost relieved.<p>

Immediately afterward, the City had exploded with activity like a nest of disturbed ants. The telegraph and telephone lines shut down with the overload of requests, and the newspapers enjoyed the surge in sales. The police had feared a riot or a total government collapse, but for the most part, people were simply stunned. It wasn't every day that the head of a government stepped down in such a dramatic fashion. All in all, Arthur mused, things in the City could have been far worse.

Eames had squeezed Arthur's hand tight, given him a long, deep kiss, and then disappeared into the crowd. Eames was going back to Dom's, but Arthur had stayed behind. He'd gotten a summons; one he couldn't refuse.

The irony that Maurice Fischer—the only man who might have bailed Robert out—was now dead, poisoned by Robert's own hand, escaped nobody. But Ichiro Saito appeared to enjoy it more than anyone as he licked at his ice cream cone in the seat across from Arthur. An ice cream parlor didn't seem like the safest (or sanest) meeting place for the man who would be governor, but the whole city block had been emptied of everyone but them and a few bored-looking men in suits. Arthur imagined Saito's private guard was used to his eccentricities.

"So, Mr. Rydell," Saito said after a distractingly long lick. "How would you like to negotiate payment for your services? Very stylish, by the way," he added, curling his fingers in and popping them back out in a crude representation of Warping.

"Payment?" Arthur glanced from his own melting ice cream to Saito in questioning. "But I thought having the Stop removed was our payment."

"That was Mr. Eames' payment." Saito's smile grew wider. "Of course I'll have to deduct the cost of the repairs to my courtyard, after you crashed Nash's ornithopter into it." Arthur winced. "But you shouldn't be left entirely uncompensated. Is there nothing you want?"

"Ariadne," Arthur said immediately. "My half sister. I spent all the money I'd saved to help pay her Uni tuition when I bailed Dom out of jail. Is there any way–"

"Consider it done. Your sister's tuition, books and housing expenses will be taken care of until such time as she graduates."

"Thank you, sir," said Arthur, breathless, but Saito just waved the hand not holding his ice cream cone in dismissal.

"What about you, Arthur? Is there nothing _you_ want?"

Arthur blinked and recalled what Ariadne had told him, standing on Dom's balcony yesterday as the world had collapsed around him. He'd promised himself that he would try this 'selfish' thing, so he blanked his mind now to think. What _did_he want?

The answer came easily enough. _Eames_.

Arthur allowed himself a small smile and he picked up his spoon, scooping out a large bite of chocolate ice cream. "What I want isn't anything you can give me," he said, and Saito raised an eyebrow. But with a little bit of imagination and wishful thinking, Arthur suddenly pictured an apartment. Nothing big, just something cozy and with room enough for two. He couldn't live out of Dom's forever, not with all the silences and the way he looked at Eames sometimes. But maybe Saito could grant them a little place of their own; somewhere where Arthur and Eames could build new memories. He'd just have to ask Eames about it, first.

"Can I get back to you on that?"

Saito laughed. "Of course."

Arthur spooned the last of his ice cream into his mouth—_fuck_, this was delicious; he had no idea why he'd been denying himself pleasures like this for so long—and prepared to leave. "One last thing, though," he said after he'd swallowed, and Saito nodded for him to continue. "How do I know we've done the right thing? I mean, obviously there's no way we'd be better off with Robert in charge, but... what do you plan to do with the City?"

"Now _there's _a worthy question," said Saito, pleased. "And it's good that you question at all. I believe one has the right and the responsibility to check one's leadership, so I plan to reinstate the Oversight Committee after the people have elected the new governor."

Arthur dropped his spoon. "Wait, what? Oversight Committee? _Elections_?"

Saito's eyes receded into slits with the force of his grin, and Arthur got the sense that he was enjoying this immensely. "Surely you didn't think that a man as busy as I am has time to rule a city? This is just one of my holdings, you know. I've got buildings in New York, Chicago, Tokyo, Paris and London as well. I needed things opened up here, because... well, it's simply better for business with Fischer out of the way."

"You absolute bastard," said Arthur with no heat behind it whatsoever.

"Indeed," Saito nodded. "Now, go find out what it is that you want, before it's gone."

"I will." The handshake they shared when Arthur stood to leave was firm and optimistic. They each had a friend in the other.

* * *

><p>Ariadne was waiting for Arthur when he Warped back to Dom's apartment. She set down a gleeful James, who streaked back to his father and Phillippa for what must have been the thousandth bear hug they'd shared since the little family had been reunited.<p>

"You'll never believe what just happened," said Ariadne breathlessly. "There was a metal man here just now, an automaton! He said his name was Tadashi, and he told me that all my Uni expenses were taken care of from now until I graduate! She ran to give him a bear hug several orders of magnitude tighter than James', the exhilaration plastered on her face, and Arthur smirked to himself. That was fast.

"Where's Eames?" he asked—and he felt Ariadne go still in his arms. She backed away, confusion writ in her furrowed brow.

"What do you mean? I thought he was with you?"

No, _no. _Arthur felt a sinking sensation in his gut, the smile he'd worn wiped clean in an instant. "He... he _was_ with me. Just a few hours ago. He said he was going to come back here."

"He hasn't been back," said Dom from the sofa, in such a way that Arthur sensed he was trying to be sympathetic about it but couldn't quite manage. "I'd have noticed."

"Is it possible he got into trouble on the way?" Yusuf asked. "I know Fischer didn't use any of our names when he was up there telling his story, but maybe somebody figured out what Eames is. If they knew how to capture him, they'd make a killing selling him in the slave trade."

Arthur pinched at his brow and shook his head. Somehow, he knew that wasn't what happened. "It isn't that. I don't know what did happen, but... it's like I've got this feeling. There's someplace I need to go."

"Where?" Ariadne asked, but Arthur was already preparing to Warp.

"I'll be back."

Eames' apartment was silent and empty, and Arthur's heart sank. But there were fresh footprints through the pigeon droppings, and other signs that someone had been here recently. Arthur trudged through the wreckage of furniture and fallen plaster from the walls of the main room, into the bedroom. Arthur had never been here before, and he looked around with curiosity. There was a small bookshelf, emptied, though the lines in the dust showed where books had sat. A wardrobe, also empty. A large, cracked mirror. A low bed with a ratty comforter. And in the center of it, folded neatly, a letter. Arthur reached out, his trepidation manifesting in his trembling fingers, and picked it up to read it.

'_Dearest' _and_ '__Darling' _were scratched out_.__ 'Arthur_,' it began, and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward despite himself.

'_You're probably reading this while the ink is still wet. You're a clever one; I know you'll have figured out that I've gone as soon as you realized I wasn't at Dom's. But I thought I'd explain my reasons a bit, because as intelligent as you are, you can be a bit dense when it comes to matters of the heart. No offence._

_Let me begin by telling you that, yes, I am absolutely in love with you. You're the best thing ever to happen to me, and so leaving now feels like ripping the scab off a wound. Not only because it's painful to me, but because I know you will be sad and hurt, as you have every right to be. Arthur, I am so, so sorry._

_This is the way it has to be._

_You're a good person, love. You're decent and kind, and you're there for those who need you. You're a friend to Dom, a brother to your sister, and unflinchingly loyal in a way that boggles me, but I admire you for it nonetheless. Dom, Yusuf and Ariadne are good people too—and that's why they deserve you. You were the best thing to happen to me, but I was the worst thing to happen to them. I didn't mean for them to get caught up in all this, or for Mal to die, but it still happened. I destroyed Dom's perfect family, his life. I know you probably don't believe in luck, but I know from experience that bad things follow me. It's why I had to leave. I might have been able to start over if I'd stayed in Los Angeles, and maybe I'd even have been successful. Yet it would only be a matter of time before I brought some new disaster down on your heads. It's like I told you, Arthur. Sources are dangerous._

_Please, when I'm gone and you've read this, tell the others that I am sorrier for what happened over the past month than anything in my life. Perhaps Dom will be satisfied knowing I'll have that guilt on my back forever. Give a hug to Ariadne for me. For Yusuf, take the cash that's stashed under the mattress. It isn't much, but it might help him restock his supplies. Tell them all that I wish them the best as they begin to heal_—_for what it's worth._

_But my love is only for you. You were and did so much more than I deserved, and I don't think there's a way to sum up in words how grateful I am to you for it. For everything. So carry it with you until the day you find someone who deserves your love... and then let it go. Be happy. But know that I will always remember you and what we shared. Know that you, Arthur Rydell, are responsible for saving the lives of so many people, the world over, who will never even know your name. And know that, in a way, you saved me._

_With all my love,_  
><em>Jonathan Eames'<em>

Arthur carefully refolded the note and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He flipped up the comforter and mattress and found about a hundred dollars in small bills, which he rolled and stuck in beside the letter. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and Warped to his favorite spot in the City to think, the rooftop of his old apartment building.

He thought about his parents as he leaned onto the concrete railing warmed by the sun. Would they be proud of him for the things he'd done, and the choices he'd made? His father might have been distressed about him losing the apartment, and getting the car covered in graffiti, but Arthur imagined they'd have approved, overall. Things had turned out alright in the end. He'd lost a friend along the way, which still left a deep, abiding hurt, but Eames was right about one thing—they'd saved more lives than they'd lost by taking Robert down.

Everything else, though...

Arthur looked out at the City, taking in the comforting shape of the skyline. He could see the Fischer building from here, so different now that the pennants had been removed and the airship confiscated. Proclus seemed to stand taller and its windows glittered as, for the first time, it lay in no one's shadow. Dom's penthouse was hardly a speck, but he could just make it out from here as well. And the Temple stood at the center, graceful spires reaching skyward.

Life would go on in the City. Everyone was going to be okay. Things were rough now, but wounds would heal. Ariadne would keep her word, and would help rebuild Yusuf's shop. She'd be able to finish school, and she'd be no doubt brilliant at it. Dom had his children back, and the help of his parents and his father-in-law to raise them. They would grow up without a mother, but with no lack of love or want for anything. It would be strange having elections after all these years under Fischer rule, but the people would adjust.

Everyone would be fine without Arthur.

Because if Eames thought he was going to get away with writing a half-assed note and riding off into the sunset alone, well. He had another thing coming to him. Ariadne had created a monster when she'd told him to be selfish, and Arthur grinned. Chase after his own dreams? Sure. Beat some sense into them when he'd found them? Possibly.

He turned and looked away from the center of the City, toward the northeast, out into the desert. He had a feeling in his gut. A pull. Chicago, maybe. He took the letter from his pocket and tore it into a dozen tiny pieces, letting them go on the wind. Arthur would follow Eames, and when he found him, he'd make him repeat every word of the last paragraph to his face. What he'd do after that, he wasn't sure, but he hoped it involved a good telling-off and some slightly angry sex. Hell, Arthur could dream.

"Just you fucking wait," he said to no one, voice lost in the rush of the wind as he smiled. "Just you wait."

TBC

**A/N: **Thank you, readers! I hope you've enjoyed the story! There is a forthcoming sequel, which I'll begin to post in the next couple of weeks, but I won't be able to update as often (because it's not written yet). There will also be a soundtrack in the future, and possibly art, which you can find along with this story on my LJ: pen-pistola (dot) livejournal (dot) com.


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